Most people think of January as the season of new beginnings. For me, it’s always been September.
When I was a kid, the Tuesday after Labor Day meant the first day of school, almost like the start of a new story. It was the time for new notebooks, sharpened pencils, and a desk arrangement no one had gotten used to yet. I was leaving behind my old life, embarking on a new quest. And the monsters had yet to gnash their terrible teeth or show their terrible claws.
There was something reassuring about everyone in the same boat, shuffling into class with bag lunches and first-day jitters. I much preferred that to being the new kid mid-year, walking into a room where routines were already set. September was an equalizer: awkward for everyone, therefore awkward for no one.
I carried that feeling home, too. By the time I was ten I’d begun decorating my bedroom door the way my teachers decorated bulletin boards. September was for apples and leaves. October: pumpkins, bats, and the occasional lopsided ghost. November: corn, pilgrims, and paper turkeys with uneven tail feathers. December was, of course, snowmen. My scissors and tape were always busy; the seasons turned one construction-paper display at a time.
That sense of seasonal transition has never left me. Summer will always be my favorite — long days, bright sun, the world at its greenest, and, oh yeah -- NO SCHOOL -- but fall holds its own magic. Crisp mornings, color splashed across the hillsides, and that undeniable tug of a new beginning. Even now, all these years later, September makes me feel like I should be pulling out fresh notebooks and rearranging my desk.
This Week's Mishaps
The good thing about this week was a stretch of beautiful weather. I carried my sketchbook and zine pages outside to the back patio, where Abby kept me company. She offered the occasional barked critique (and more than one sigh of disapproval when I ignored her). It didn’t last long — weather never does here — but while it held, it felt like a gift.
And then, instead of fresh notebooks, what I pulled out this week was my collection of zines. Or at least, I tried to.
I’d clipped all fourteen of them neatly together so I could find them easily, which made it all the more ridiculous when I couldn’t find them anywhere. I scoured drawers, pawed through stacks of paper, and was this close to reprinting the entire set when my eyes finally landed on the desk. There they were, lounging smugly right beside the stapler, bold as brass. How I missed them, I’ll never know.
That was only the beginning.
My desktop computer suddenly developed a mind of its own. Screens flashed, menus opened, settings searches typed themselves out without my help. I ran every check I could think of, from virus scanners to registry files. I finally decided the culprit was probably Adobe poking around, suspicious of me even though all my software is properly licensed. I still avoided the thing for two days, wary of being spooked again.
Meanwhile, my laptop decided to wake up in a foul mood. Each morning I’d open it, coffee in hand, ready to journal — only to be greeted by a grinding noise like stone chewing stone. I slammed it shut more than once, letting it sulk before daring to try again. Perhaps it’s age, perhaps it’s me, or perhaps my technology has simply joined the seasonal theme of awkward beginnings.
Or it’s the studio gremlin. He’s showing up way too often these days, so much so that I’ve decided to give him a name.
Meet Inkspatter, Gremlin Extraordinaire:
Things I'm Looking Forward To
All this to say: September hasn’t lost its edge. It still brings that unsettled energy, like the first days of school. A little disarray. A few false starts.
But it also brings anticipation. I'm looking forward to drier days, the leaves changing colors, and pumpkin spice lattes. This year, I’m also channeling that feeling toward the Johnson City Zine Fest at the end of October. And just as I once decorated doors with paper leaves and pumpkins, I’m already scheming how to decorate my table.
I want it to have storytelling magic with a playful, spooky edge, like a bard’s traveling wagon parked for the night, complete with a glowing LED campfire. A place where stories are traded as easily as candy corn, where the air feels crisp with possibility, and where no one minds if a little mischief sneaks in around the edges.
That’s what fall is, after all. A season that feels like an ending but carries the spark of a beginning. It’s a reminder that stories, like leaves, sometimes have to scatter before they can take root again.
And if my computers, my zines, and my mornings are a little chaotic right now — well, maybe they’re just getting me into the proper September spirit.
Your turn: What does September mean to you? Is it endings, beginnings, or a little bit of both?
