I have to say, Jane and I have done pretty well so far at squeezing every succulent drop out of summer. We’ve gone camping twice and to the beach numerous times (it helps to live on the seacoast!), not to mention family barbecues. I’ve been burned at least a few times. And there’s a block party tonight.
But you, gentle reader, are not as interested in what I’ve been doing as you are in what I’m thinking, I assume (if you’re interested at all). Summer, then, has been on my mind, as fiction setting and/or device. In the horror series I’m planning, which is set in the fall (as most of my horror attempts end up being set), the recently bygone summer is like a lost world, when all the tourists were still in town and before the trouble started. In other story drafts, summer is a skipped-over period mid-story, like in those TV shows that in their fall season premieres come up with some hasty sketch of what happened to the characters during the summertime (usually not much).
Sometime I’d really love to write a book that captures summer, because it can be a compelling setting if done right, particularly for adventure. Summer itself always seems to slip away imperceptibly, but an individual day or night during that time can stretch on forever. The physical dimensions of a summer night seem infinite. Maybe, when I feel that I’m finally up for the task, I’ll put on the Clientele’s God Save the Clientele album, refer back to Crowley’s Little, Big for instructions on how to cast a seasonal spell, and dive right in.