Winter: A Guest Post byVal McDermid

Val McDermid invites readers on a radiant journey through the quiet, frosty nights of winter in this dazzling collection of essays. Read on for an exclusive essay from Val on writing Winter.

Last year, I published my 40^th crime novel. Where do all the ideas come from? Everywhere—the issue is finding the time or the resources to pursue them, and challenge is at the heart of what keeps me writing.

So I’m always willing to give serious consideration to an idea dangled by a publisher. It’s led to a reworking of Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey; a graphic novel about an end-of-the world pandemic; a book about real women PIs in the US and the UK; a novella about the real Queen Macbeth; a journey through the different disciplines of forensic science; and a joint project retelling Scotland’s only attempt at founding an overseas colony.

When an editor invited me to contribute a personal take on one of the seasons for a quartet of books, I was warily interested, hoping that my favourite wasn’t already spoken for. To my relief, and serendipitously, I was offered winter.

I’ve always loved the season where Scotland comes into its own. Never mind those picturesque postcard views of sun-struck mountains and lochs, immaculate empty beaches guarded by rocky promontories. Look closer: there are no sunbathers, no surfers riding waves, no kids scrambling over the rocks in their shorts and teeshirts.

Because the photographs were taken in the dead of winter, the purple heather on the hillsides added in post-production.

These cold crisp days are the perfect excuse for seeing Scotland at its finest. I love putting on my merino layers and chunky cable-knit sweaters, my windproof trousers, my thick woolly socks and my stoutest walking shoes. Add the final layers of a down parka and a Fair Isle knitted hat and I’m ready to go. Never mind that we all resemble Weebles; we’re insulated and alert for the joys of the winter landscape.

Stripped of their green camouflage, tree branches weave tantalising maps across the bright blue. Squirrels caper up and down, from roots to the slenderest of twigs, chasing each other over territorial disputes or courtship. (It’s not always easy to differentiate.) Birds are at their most visible – a blitz of tits (blue, coal, great and long-tailed), a charm of goldfinches, a rat-a-tat-tat of woodpeckers.

But I can’t deny that the short days and the long dark nights need some leavening. I suspect that’s why we’re so keen to cleave to the traditional festivals that brighten the darkness. Accessible and cheap, unlike the summer festivals with their high ticket prices, their uncomfortable tents and overflowing loos… Hallowe’en, with its tradition of guising and ghosties; Guy Fawkes with its fireworks and hint of revolution; winter solstice with its ancient sites whose layout reminds us that the light always comes back; Hogmanay, drawing a line under the year past and letting in optimism for the year to come; Burns Night, with its celebration in words and music of our national bard; and eventually, Easter and its promise of renewal as the trees green up and there comes the promise of warmth creeping into the very bones of the earth.

How could I resist writing about winter?