Writers hardly suffer the consequences of weather.
If it’s snowing, we bundle up with a blanket and hot chocolate. If it’s sunny we can bask in the window pane of light cast on our coach or venture out into the grass. If it’s windy, we watch and write behind closed doors and sound walls. If it’s rainy, we sit it out.
If writers become multimodal, we hardly have the same luxuries.
For our remediation, our intention was to enjoy the crisp cool air of an October Thursday, to solicit the wise sayings of those who may be wandering Main Street. Instead, we were greeted with the sheets of rain, cloudy skies, and red rain boots that aren’t uncommon to Michigan Fall. Needless to say, we beat a hasty retreat and penned in a rescheduled date.
As we use more of our environment, actively engaging it in our pursuits, we are, at the same time, constrained by that which we want to interact with. How do you define a writer? What if you write by putting together a collage of pictures, by capturing the world around you? How much do we integrate before we cease to be independent writers and just an observer of the world? Is there a boundary, a line? Or are we really just the same thing?