Yesterday, the temperate was in the mid-90’s with a humidity index of Face-Melting, but as I lay in bed reading with the fan turned on high, I was swept away into a snow-lashed courtroom in 1950s Washington State.
I’m currently reading Snow Falling on Cedars, and though it’s riddled with flashbacks spanning all seasons, the story of the trial that holds them all together is set in the depths of a rough winter.
I don’t recall ever making an effort to match my reading to the seasons when I was younger. I read whatever I wanted to, when I wanted to–but I also don’t remember many of the books I read having a strong seasonal component to begin with.
Now, I’ve got one Halloween romance and probably half a dozen Christmas romances waiting for me on my Kindle, because I feel like reading them out of season would be weird.
But in my effort to clear out some of my older unread books, I’m running down the list of my acquired-in-2015 shelf, and of the ones I had left to read, Snow jumped out at me. Never saw the movie, only had the vaguest idea what it’s about before I started. I admit, I didn’t think I was going to like it much.
Yet, here I am in the middle of a heat wave, reading about snowdrifts and the wind-lashed seas of a winter storm, and enjoying myself, perhaps because it’s so far removed from the sticky heat in the air around me.
What is your experience with reading books seasonally? Do you prefer to match, deliberately mismatch, or disregard the concept altogether?