There are a million reasons to miss England when I'm in my adopted California but the Winter is not one of them. I've been here since March 4th and, as much as it pains me to admit it, I find it too difficult to write here. And one of the major reasons is the weather.
I've certainly been more productive in my writing than I've ever been since moving to San Francisco. The sunshine is great, obviously, but even the rain there is more inspiring. When it rains, it really pours: American weather is more dramatic, her skies more variable.
So, since March began, I have written nothing creative at all. And I never write anything when I am visiting home - whatever the season - but the odd thing is, back in San Francisco, I find it almost impossible to write about anything other than England. The language, themes and characters of all my stories are quintessentially British. It's as if my nationality is a prism and when the Californian light shines through it on to my page, all the wonderful colours appear; colours that are invisible to me here.
I'll be back in San Francisco in April and I can't wait for the sun to shed new light on my most recent trip home and bring on the Spring.
