Hibernation Season: My Fantasy of Writing All Winter

My Fantasy of Being a Full-Time Writer | By Amy Roullier

I have this romantic fantasy about hibernating all winter and writing a fucking great book.

I don’t even mind where this hibernation takes place, but if I could choose, give me a secluded cottage with a high, pitched ceiling, its termite-scarred wooden beams stretching like ribs above me. Furnish it with grand velvet sofas and enormous armchairs draped in soft, indulgent throws. Let there be light—floor-to-ceiling windows that invite the outdoors in. I want to watch sunrise creep across the bedroom, gently stirring me awake. I want the pink glow of sunset crawling across the floor, the rustle of leaves tapping the glass, the sun setting as I sit beside a roaring open fire.

Give me an enormous antique writing desk. The chair doesn’t matter, as I’ll probably never sit at it. My desks are more aesthetic than practical, anyway. I prefer to huddle under blankets in dark corners, sunlight spilling over my feet, as I wince at a screen and let pure passion pour from my fingertips.

The Reality I Crave

This dream is sexy AF. My romantic fantasy of being a full-time writer. Of taking all the melancholy sadness of winter and turning it into something beautiful—poems, stories, fragments of thought that dilute the ache inside by setting it free.

I long for this fantasy to become reality. To wake up, make coffee, walk the dogs, and then think, feel, write for the next eight hours.

I want my time to be consumed by art.
Evenings spent devouring novels.
Mornings wrapped in poetry.
Full days lost in edits, drafts, book content, and future projects.

The Truth Behind the Artist’s Grind

There’s this misconception about artists, I think. That they’re lazy, unserious, unstructured. We imagine them sleeping until noon, drifting through the day, using art as an excuse to do nothing. But I know better. Real artists are on the brink of mental collapse half the time, their brains non-stop creating, constantly spinning with the next idea, the next rewrite, the next project that won’t let them sleep.

Most of us, before any kind of “success”, are working multiple jobs, writing in the margins of our lives. We write instead of sleeping in. We create between shifts, between responsibilities, between moments of exhaustion.

So, no, I don’t dream of this writer’s life because I think it will be easier.
I dream of it because I want to work just as hard, but on the things that make me come alive.

I wake up at 5:30 most mornings just to write for two hours before I run, walk the dogs, shower, and start my actual job. That’s not laziness. That’s devotion. Perseverance. Borderline obsession.

I don’t want to be a writer because I think it means less work. I want to be a writer because I crave a life that’s full, jam-packed even, but filled with the things that matter to me.

A Season Full of Words

I imagine a life that looks a lot like this one, only my 9–5 would be filled with words instead of everything else. Maybe one day, I’ll earn the chance to escape to some faraway place and live out my hermitess fantasy. Maybe I’ll mark each winter—or autumn, my new favourite writing season—as a deadline for creation.

But there’s something intoxicating about the idea of total freedom to hunker down and write.
No distractions.
No obligations.
Just you, a keyboard, and another world waiting to be built.

If you’re a writer too, whether self-published or dreaming, I hope you give yourself permission to fantasize about your own version of hibernation. Which season would you pick?