I was informed recently that there is a quote from Stephen King advising that a writer should always work on a piece of writing until it is finished and never abandon it before that point is reached. There is another quote from poet Paul Valery saying that a poem is never finished, but simply abandoned.

The apparent conflict between these two statements is, I believe, more of the definition one gives to the word “abandon.” I agree with both of them. There have been many times I have been stalled in the middle of a piece, not being able to make any headway toward finishing it. When, by using any number of methods, I did get around to finishing the piece, it turned out to be a very satisfactory effort—well worth finishing. On the other hand, I find that when I pick up a piece I finished some time ago I invariably find some things I want to change.

I was shown another aspect of the matter when I was taking some courses in painting. There is a danger in trying to over-improve a work. Sometimes the crisp strokes of a first effort have more value than overworking something in order to improve it. The principle is as valid in writing as in painting.

When is a work finished and when is it simply abandoned? I think it is more a matter of opinion than anything—a cross between sticking with a piece through thick and thin and simply knowing when to quit.

I put Christmas away yesterday—stored it in the shed until next December. I was really sad to do that this year.  I miss the tree and window lights after having them brighten the living room for over a month. I got my little tree out on the last day of November and on Sunday, the first day of December I put it up and decorated it. I put electric candles in the windows and a wreath on the porch wall beside the front door. All the while I played Christmas music on the CD player and then watched a DVD of an Irish Christmas celebration with readings, songs, music and dancing. I had a bit of wine to accompany the procedure. It was quite a production. Really got me in the mood. It was satisfying to continue that mood by having the merry little colored lights lit every evening of the month.

On January sixth, after Twelfth Night, I took all the decorations down and packed them away in bags and boxes. I made a production of that, too, with CDs and DVDs and I didn’t forget the glass of wine. I figured the send off was deserved for having such cheerful companionship for the holidays. But it made me a bit sad, too. One thing I did do was buy a few new ornaments  and two additional strings of lights for the tree to make the holiday a little bit brighter next year. I even remembered to pack them with the other decorations and label the boxes so I’ll be able to find them when the occasion arises.

Because of the low temperatures last week and other things to take care of, I didn’t get a chance to put the bags and boxes away until yesterday. That was accomplished without fanfare or celebration. It was just a regretful little task that took only fifteen minutes or so. No music. No wine. I just didn’t feel like celebrating the event.

We went through a little “cold snap” Monday night—temperature about nine degrees below zero, I understand. It was cold but no special problems with me or my friends and acquaintances. I don’t appreciate weather that cold. I recall a year (I believe it was in the early 1980’s) that the temperature did not get above single digits for weeks. It was a time of trial for me. Then, finally one morning, I turned the radio on to hear a forecast of fifty degrees for the day. I rejoiced in the balmy weather. It was a pleasure to go outside. There was a period of time in another year when it snowed almost every day. Such weather remained common throughout January and February. The snow accumulated and did not melt. It was March until I saw bare earth again.

Disagreeable as cold temperatures and snow are, my principal complaint about winter is the absence of light. I am a person of the sun and the darkness of winter takes its toll on me. I dislike having darkness descend (or rise, which is more accurate) at 5:00 PM. I feel cheated of the evening, the long hours of fading light and the final flights of birds and then the quiet slipping into darkness and rest that are normal for the warmth of summer. The end of day seems to come suddenly in winter, crashing down before you’re ready for it, a rude end to the day. And morning seldom seems to come with any grace. A sort of half light appears and persists and one is supposed to complete any tasks of the day by this inadequate illumination. I have a friend who counts the days of January, February and March with the thought in mind that each day brings us approximately one more minute of daylight. I subscribe to the same custom, but it is amazing how much longer the process takes than the opposite journey to less light that occurs from midsummer on.