March Madness

I get sucker-punched every year by the "Ides of March" (Remember Shakespeare's soothsayer telling Julius Caesar to "Beware the ides of March"?) The 'ides' is the fifteenth of March, (my posting day which I may or may not have consciously or subconsciously forgotten)! But I do readily admit to being infected with March Madness. And I'm not talking about basketball.
My theory is that cabin fever got it's rep in the 1800's when fur traders and miners snowed into the back of beyond ran out of their winter stock of booze. In March. So they started "shooting" from the bottom of the barrel, chugging gut-rotting moonshine and grain alcohol meant for medicinal use only. The deadly symptoms of March Madness immediately manifested; obsessive quick draw gunplay, bird delusions which involved flight from high places, cravings for female and/or male flesh (alive and/or dead… i.e. Donner party). But whether we tipple or not, all of us here in the north suffer some form of March Madness, that crazy eagerness to unpack the hot pants and capri's, brightly paint our shriveled, sun-deprived toenails or sprawl in the sun mostly naked.
My Ground Hog's Day test (conducted on March 15th) where I check how much more winter we have left is this: (and you may want to try it yourself). I go outside, spit into the wind and if spit flies back in my face I know we have at least six weeks left before I have to shave my legs. Six more interminable weeks. My writing's already gone south and I can't follow. My plots puddling, my character's faces blur into Picasso-esc montages and their motives gravitate towards Hawaiin beaches and dark skinned native men. With hot tattoos.
Meanwhile I'm loosing track of days, which really messes with my bathing schedule. I have unnatural dreams about Cheetos (don't even ask) and I've watched so much television I've OD'd on male-enhancement commercials and am having gender issues! I mean, every romance writer needs a healthy dose of 'penis envy' (as long as it's kept in perspective!) But I'm here to tell you Freud barely scratched the surface where my Oedipal, Medea and Titus Andronicus complexes are concerned.
So what to do when March Madness roars in like a lion? I go to my happy place. (Not that happy place, though if it works for you, go for it). I pretty much head the opposite direction (no pun intended) and let my inner child loose. The three year old in me that counts diggers and dozers and cement trucks while I drive. The six year old with missing front teeth that lisps everything I say, and slips in inappropriate swear words just to see if someone's paying attention. I caw at crows, chase the dog who's chasing his tail, catch snowflakes on my tongue, build a blanket fort and take a nap in it. I open my child eyes and see. Minute details of everyday life grow in magnitude. I find pine cones the squirrel's have stripped to nubs and remember painting these green to use as trees in a diorama once. I hunt pussy willows, Frisbee frozen cow-pies at fence posts, stomp ice puddles, ride the back of the couch like it's a race horse, cry when I'm sad, whimper over a sore throat, draw and color, cut and paste, mash marshmallows to goo between my fingers. I make no apologies, it's March Madness.
Me as adult and me as writer arm wrestle constantly over the appropriateness of pretending. It's my curse. But if during March Madness my inner child can't come out to play, a blot, a goiter, a cancer begins to stain my writing. The story sucks, I overwrite, rewrite, deconstruct the write until it's too mangled to make right!
You know what my inner child says then? "You're not having enough fun. So let's pretend. And it's okay to color outside the lines."
Writers are children at heart and a child must play. So let March Madness go out like a lamb, tail wriggling happily. Then look for your inner child in the mirror until she shines in your eyes, give her a slobbery kiss and say, "Let's make mud pies out of April showers."

Keep the old head above water 'til next month, Pam Morris