I love winter. I love temperatures below freezing, the fresh, crisp air that I actually see while breathing. I love it when the cold tingles the skin on my face, coloring my cheeks, and stings my knees, making me shiver, compelling me to hasten my pace during walks. I love the chilly air shocking my face when I get outside, just as I love the feel of my home’s warmth when I get back inside.
Yes, I love it all.
But…I love this time of year snowy. Without snow, winter is not “quite” winter for me, not really. My “winter picture perfect” on a Saturday morning is this: Buildings, trees, benches, steps, handrails, parked cars enveloped in light, pristine, puffy whiteness. Snow-covered roads and sidewalks marked by tire impressions and footprints, but only slightly. Piles of snow on sidewalks–high and fluffy, like cotton candy. The needles of fir trees encrusted with clumps of sparkling snowflakes. My puppies, Greta and Gunner, frolicking in our backyard, chasing one another, jumping over the piles, their tails wagging, noses sniffing, mouths stretched in happy smiles.
And snowflakes falling, dancing, swirling…
Snowy winter was a source of inspiration for me while writing my first novel, Disengaged, set in Bavaria, Germany, and it is now, while I’m working on my forth novel, set in Moscow, Russia.