Snow Day!

-Writing is like a snow day.

            On Tuesday morning the sky was a dense, grayish-white. It looked as an ice cube does when compact, solid, and ready to fall from the tray. The sky cracked open and the shavings of that cube came down. As day became night, heavy flakes were still falling outside, covering the painted blue of my front steps.

-This is how writing often begins for me. An idea builds in my mind, filling my head with thoughts that flow, drifting from somewhere untouchable.

-Those thoughts of what to write become something real and surprising—a story.

            I was working on a paper when my housemate burst into my room (or tried to, since my door sticks). She jumped up and down on my creaky floor as if it was a trampoline. “Snow day! Snow Day!” she was yelling. As quickly as she had come she was gone, spreading the news.

-The writing comes, not caring if the hours it takes were meant for sleep. There is too much excitement for any other activity.

            In a flurry of jubilation, my six other roommates and I threw on our winter mittens and hats. And with little regard for our lack of snow pants, we ran outside into the white!

-You work at the process of writing: choosing words, structure, and putting them in the compacted form of a story.

            One of my roommates yelled, “Snowman!” so we began rolling the snow, placing, gathering, packing it into a form.

-Because you reach challenges, the writing turns into something different from what you had intended, taking on a new design.

            Our snowman was not growing into a snowman, however. We failed at the proper shape. The bottom, body and head clumped together as one large being. And suddenly, he had a sloping, trailing tail. This was no snowman; this was Jabba the Hutt (Star Wars).

-You follow after the words wherever they want to go.

            So we turned Jabba into one side of a snow fort and proceeded to duplicate him on the opposite side of our snow-covered yard.

            After a couple hours of shoveling the accumulation from our neighbor’s yard into our own, building up the sides of the fort, and lying exhausted on beds of ice, we were soaked, cold and ready to go inside. But before we reached the porch—and the end of our revelry—someone threw a snowball!

-The story nears its conclusion and surprises you, lasting longer than you had expected and ending how it sees fit.

            Some neighbors from a house behind us—ones we had never met—wordlessly challenged us to a snowball war. We spent the next hour in childish ecstasy! Cars became trees for hiding behind. The road was an empty no-man’s land. And buses were the common enemy, inviting a volley of packed powder from each side. The battle raged.

-You strip the story of its dragging parts and what’s left is a piece worthy of remembrance.

            When our neighbors finally surrendered, aware of their lack of a base compared with our fortress, we trudged up our steps and into the house. While we shed wet clothes, a smell of mint and cinnamon reached our frozen noses. A pot of flavored hot chocolate was waiting on the stove, ready to warm the numbness of our stiff fingers. We each ladled up a mug. Then we huddled together on our living room couches, laughing at the children we had become.

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