The year is a lever, precariously balanced above the equinoxes.
I did not think of equal day and night when I lived elsewhere.
Those daylight hours matter so much less when they stay so much the same.
In the north, the shift is dramatic.
But there is a deceptive slowing around the equinoxes, a false sense that the hours are remaining the same.
Then everything is either dark.
If the story is mild, the pivot points can shift in many directions with little change to the story.
Shift the pivots of stories with stark extremes, hard conflicts, and the seasons within unravel.
Shift the light and darkness and the land goes from harsh to uninhabitable.
I try to choose those pivots with care.
Because there is nothing like the moment when I wake, blinking, in light rather than darkness.