I’ve got a love/hate relationship with Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year. Some years, I find myself listening to choral music, Sufjan Stevens, and Christmas Queens; snuggling my spoiled animals; and actually feeling the warm socks on my feet. I nibble pieces of my BIL’s (surprisingly good, it’s strange magic) fruitcake or nurse hot toddies. Go, hygge!

But other years, I end up antsy and wandering (definitely not trespassing in cow pastures) outside in the cold dark, rolling troubling ish over and over in my mind like it’s a fidget spinner in 2017. Maybe it’s the pressure of an impending brand new year combined with having less daylight to distract myself with. But my gut knows something has to give, and it won’t let me rest until I’ve put a finer point on what’s niggling me. It’s a antsy mental pacing that looks a lot like uncomfortable animals going into labor (literally or metaphorically)…the only way out is through.

It’s not that I blame Solstice. It’s just that I just suspect the prolonged darkness has a way of bringing the truth to light.

And this morning, as I was coughing over the (ill advised) five drops of peppermint extract I put in my coffee, it struck me that Winter Solstice is a lot like Dark Night of the Soul/All is Lost beats in a story plot. Remember in elementary school when kids would get too loud/rowdy in the cafeteria, and someone would turn the lights off? People got quieter, in theory. Darkness slows us down and forces us to focus only on what’s right in front of us (which is, unfortunately, sometimes burnt pizza and lukewarm milk).

In the same way that Winter Solstice requires sitting still with the present, the All Is Lost moment asks the character to face what they’ve been running from since the start of the story: what’s working for them (which they’re denying) and what isn’t (which has now been wrenched from their stubborn grip). Their circumstances have funneled them down their own web of rationalizations to face the monster of truth at its center. They dislike themselves. They don’t believe they’re worthy of support. They have to face their irrational fear of horses. They have to sit with it. There’s no escape.

For the peaceful crones and stew-making Yodas among us, a long night can mean cozy contemplation. To my (deep) chagrin, this a fascinating story make it does not…

But for troubled Main Characters, long nights are claustrophobic and damning and full of despair. The differences between cozy acceptance and wallowing despair aren’t actually circumstantial, though; they’re internal. The difference is surrender vs extinction flare behavior: the wizened character accepts reality for what it is, and the Growth Arc Character goes into that dark night kicking and seething. (What we’re here for)

Humanity’s lizard brains crave stories about people who aren’t handling the truth well. We want people who are going through all seven stages of grief over the death of their terrible pet beliefs, tantrumming and bargaining and trying to wheedle their way around the inevitable. This could be because we’re all secretly a little bit sadistic. But it could also be that we crave low-risk experiences of ourselves (via empathy for the MC) spending honest time with ourselves and coming out the other side (mostly) intact. Books are intentional dreaming.

Stories might be preparation for our own (actual) longest nights, and I doubt it’s a coincidence that stories were/are often told around hearths and campfires and bonfires (or by the light of Netflix), in the darkness.

Happiest of Solstices to ya, book family. May your mugs stay warm and all your darlings be properly tormented and riddled with internal conflict! Blessed be.

** If anyone is also obsessed with choral/world/folk tunes about winter, please enjoy this gift of a playlist.