No this will not be a discourse on the figurative seasons of a writer’s life. There are plenty of those oozing around the web and many more hidden in forgotten spiral notebooks on your study shelves.
Right now I’m focused on a much more literal literary problem. I’m interested in the craft of writing seasons.
As a musician I’ve spent almost every Spring of my professional life preparing for some kind of Christmas event, which means the writing, arranging, composing, auditioning, rehearsing, directing, and performing circus has dominated my life with refrains and tinsel from about September onward. All this is fine except that Spring is one of my favourite times of year and I only glimpse it from the windscreen of my car as I drive from venue to venue.
all the world's a stage 