Here in Southern Arizona we face June through September much as – I think – a Minnesotan heads into winter. It isn’t dread, at least not for me, but rather a lifestyle change, a shift in philosophy.

Months of outdoor living give way to lazy afternoons with a book or a movie. There are no expectations of freshly pressed clothes or elaborate dinners. The pace of life shifts from fast forward to slow play. Frenetic is replaced with languid.

The winter visitors are gone, as are the university students. What remains is a camaraderie among those hearty enough to endure the furnace that is a Tucson summer. Restaurants offer specials on food and wine and there is no need to make reservations.

What does all this mean to a writer? The most wonderful gift of all: time. Time to write, to read, to write, to research. And did I mention time to write?