It’s amazing how, with each new novel, writers find themselves reinventing the wheel. No one can spare us this, because each work throws up its own problems. This is the thrill of writing fiction, I guess.
Or maybe it’s just me. Perhaps I don’t retain what I learn, so that I have to learn it all over again. Whatever, I’ve just spent some time changing the season and the weather in my novel-in-progress, since it struck me that a dark and tortured tale of death and loss and stalking wasn’t well served by its setting in early spring.
Credit where credit is due, it was reading Peter Temple’s The Broken Shore that made me see how much melancholic mileage could be drawn from a spell of winter. Of course, Temple’s landscape of rural decay, and his damaged character, Cashin, made that book a memorable read. So my point is? That he’d have had to work a lot harder to draw the same atmosphere out of a string of sunny days.