I am eaten up by seasonal depression at the moment. I am a writer and I don’t have words to express how vehemently I hate October. I despise October more than I loathe December, mostly because we are as far away from spring as we can be at this moment. As far away from the high school girls walking my neighborhood peeling the windbreakers they left the house in and tying the sleeves around their wasp waists as they lean in and whisper to one another the secrets of the oncoming summer.

Nope. December means we’re already in the wolf’s belly. Back in October I’m still staring at the wolf’s exposed and very sharp teeth, dreading the ripping pain of that first frosty bite; the one that sends me back inside one morning to put on a coat. The first time I have to scrape the frost off the truck’s windshield. The beginning of the end.

For a long stretch of years, autumn and winter represented the outflow of money from the family coffers while we were on our super-tight debt-reduction budget. Those money pressures have abated, but yet I worry anyway. I still snap awake at 3:06 in the morning and immediately stab myself with needless worries about the truck note that isn’t due for another four days. Why? At this point, I can only plead, “Instinct.”

I should be living in the moment and soaking up all the mild days. It’s great shooting weather. My Beautiful Wife and I have been getting more out of our range membership than we ever did out of our gym membership.

I’m not living in the moment. I want to crawl into a cave or a cabin somewhere and hibernate; hide from family obligations. Start an IV drip of Dewars and write bad poetry until the slush thaws and the crocuses signal that it’s safe to come out again.

I’ve got to move my aging ass to Florida. I can’t afford Southern California, and I wouldn’t be happy living in their political climate. But Florida. Someplace where autumn can’t reach me. Somewhere too far for the wolf to traverse.

I’ve lost confidence in my current WiP. It’s just too long and too “out there,” thematically. MBW has turned up her tiny nose at it, which is a rather ironclad bellwether that the story is no good. Otherwise I’d try and distract myself by holing up and cranking out the third act.

Perhaps I will just shuffle down to the cigar bar down the street, sink into one of the padded leather chairs, turn on a desk lamp (a respectful distance from the other dark dwellers) and catch up on my reading.

Sigh.

Is it over yet?

No. No it’s not. The wolf is growling. Or perhaps he’s smiling. Either way, not good.