Well, it’s that time of the year again. Outside my office window as I write this, it’s not even dinnertime but it’s already getting dark. The temperature is plunging, the skies are gunship gray, there’s fluffy snow floating down, and through leaf-bare trees Christmas lights wink in the distance. But I’d like to set the holidays aside for a moment and focus on the winter season itself. Because, let’s face it, for many of us it’s going to be around a lot longer than the holiday lights and carols.
By now I’m sure you’ve encountered the concept of hygge—the Danish word that roughly translates to coziness—featured in a plethora of books and articles over the past few years. I recently saw yet another article about hygge as it pertains to a long Michigan winter, and it got me thinking about how the concept applies to my writing life here.
Unsure who to trust for a default definition, I went to the Danish Tourism Board to find that Hygge: “means so much more than merely cosy [sic].”
“Hygge goes far in illuminating the Danish soul. In essence, hygge means creating a warm atmosphere and enjoying the good things in life with good people. The warm glow of candlelight is hygge. Cosying up with a loved one for a movie – that’s hygge, too. And there’s nothing more hygge than sitting around with friends and family, discussing the big and small things in life. Perhaps hygge explains why the Danes are some of the happiest people in the world.”
Indeed there is a bit more than coziness there. I see the terms: good, warm, atmosphere, and glow—all apt additions. They reference loved ones, and togetherness, and discussion. Those are fitting, too.
But, for me, there’s an aspect that I think this informal definition alludes to but doesn’t mention, which is a sense of well-being. And when I think about coziness as it pertains to well-being, I think of finding a sense of inner peace. Even if only temporarily.
Which made me realize that writing plays a role in my own definition of hygge. Please make yourself cozy, and I’ll explain.
Hunkering Weather
Cozy now? Do you have your favorite hot beverage, in your favorite mug? Are you wearing one of your coziest sweaters? Oh, and socks! Can’t forget those. Really nice, warm ones. Maybe a throw over your legs and feet? Good.
Because for some of you, what I’m about to say next might not inspire the warm, fuzzies. Here it is: I like winter.
Sorry, it’s true. I like cold and snow and wind. I like the frozen tundra, and ice on the lakes. I like my parka, boots, hat and gloves. But more than any of those things, I love the muffled silence of a snowy forest, and the deep black and bright stars of a winter night sky. And I love hunkering down by the fire with a good book and a glass of something warming (which is distinct from, but not exclusive of, being warm to the touch).
Having grown up on the “lake-effect” side of the Mighty Mitten, I found my way to hygge long ago. And stories—particularly those of the written-word variety—have always played a central role for me in finding comfort during inclement weather. Which I suppose explains why I so naturally took to writing during inclement weather.
There is another aspect to my fondness for winter writing. Almost seven years ago I mentioned it in another essay I wrote about winter writing: “There is solitude in winter. There is reflection, yes, and silence. In the depths of winter, here in our little resort town, I am alone in the world. Alone with my thoughts, my emotions, my dreams. I am alone with my characters, my stories.”
The passage reminds me how solitude and quiet and hunkering are part of my own hygge. Which might set me apart from the Danish Tourism Board, with their emphasis on togetherness. But not entirely. They also mention discussion of “the big and small things in life.” Which I think is central to our well-being.
A Royal Malaise
We recently watched an episode of The Crown titled Moondust (season 3, episode 7) that prompted me to further thought on the issue. (It seems this season of the popular show has provided quite a bit of writerly insight–check out our own David Corbett’s brilliant piece on forgiveness.)
*Warning: there are a few mild spoilers in this section for the episode.
Moondust features Prince Philip and his fascination with the historic lunar mission of Apollo 11 and its three astronauts. Putting it mildly, the Duke of Edinburgh is having a midlife crisis. Perhaps more accurately, Philip is experiencing a full-on existential crisis. Granted, it’s a little tough to evoke empathy for such a privileged man’s internal strife. But setting aside the privilege and the misogynistic whininess of being the husband of a woman who is much more important and powerful, I actually came to feel for the Prince (in no small part due to a wonderful portrayal by Tobias Menzies).
Prince Philip rails about being a “man of action,” which he expects to be the solution to such a crisis. At one point, regarding his sense of lacking, he even says (paraphrasing): “Thinking and talking are not going to fix this.” But he is clearly adrift, regardless of any “action” he takes. A sense of malaise weighs upon him. No matter what he “does,” he feels purposeless and unfulfilled.
The episode obviously takes place in summer (the lunar landing occurred on July 20, 1969). But Philip’s dilemma brought my idea for this essay—winter writing and hygge—to mind.
Peace Be With You
Watching Prince Philip’s struggle to find meaning in his life made me feel… well, hygge. I felt an inner coziness, a warmth, a feeling of well-being.
I suppose there’s a bit of irony in it. Here’s a portrayal of a man who’s lived a life of extraordinary luxury and privilege, the patriarch of one of the wealthiest and most powerful families on earth. And here I am experiencing it from my little cottage in the woods, on one of the darkest and coldest days of the year. And I’m feeling this strong sense of empathy because I consider myself well on my way to finding something—something for which this character hadn’t a clue how to search. Inner peace. Philip showed me the gift of my pursuit.
Now granted, I still have my bad days. I still occasionally feel troubled or sad or lonely. I still get cabin fever (very occasionally). We’re all seeking well-being, and some days it’s damn hard to find. But I have an advantage. I think we all have it.
We writers are already on a quest. It’s incumbent upon the gig. We seek to ask and grapple with the questions in life, big and small. We are solitary but we are never really alone. We may not solve all of life’s mysteries, but we gain solace in striving for resolution, with each and every story we tell.
Day in and day out, we stand back and evaluate the human condition. And then we seek to share what we’ve found, in the most connective way possible, with our fellow humans. It’s what we do. And I think it’s a damn meaningful and fulfilling way to live.
So yes, I find coziness in a winter’s day. I find comfort in hunkering in my office, writing while the wind howls outside my windows. I find a solitude in winter’s quiet that provides reflection. I find well-being in my chosen pursuit. In storytelling I find inner peace.
I am the hygge writer.
How about you? Are your socks warm enough? Has a royal ever inspired you to feelings of superiority? How’s your well-being this winter? Are you a hygge writer, too?
Peace be with you, WU. Wishing you and yours the happiest of holiday seasons.
[Top image is: Twilight on Christmas Day, by PeS–Photo, on Flickr.]
About Vaughn Roycroft
Vaughn Roycroft's (he/him) teacher gave him a copy of The Hobbit in the 6th grade, sparking a lifelong passion for reading and history. After college, life intervened, and Vaughn spent twenty years building a successful business. During those years, he and his wife built a getaway cottage near their favorite shoreline, in a fashion that would make the elves of Rivendell proud. After many milestone achievements, and with the mantra ‘life’s too short,’ they left their hectic lives in the business world, moved to their little cottage, and Vaughn finally returned to writing. Now he spends his days polishing his epic fantasy trilogy.
I am a hygge writer too! Love winter. Thanks for this marvelous post.
Thanks, Tammy. It’s nice to know I’m not alone in this, even on a day when the only tracks in the snow on our road are from the mail-lady’s truck. Here’s to hunkering!
I love winter too. Grew up in Chicago and have lived on the east side of Detroit for the past four decades. AND we have a fireplace. I’m definitely a Hygge writer. Whenever I get the chance to write a scene set in winter, I’m all over it. Summer, though nice, can sometimes be overrated. Warm wishes to you for a lovely winter.
Hey Nancy–I’m only a few miles from the Old Chicago Road, connecting your two home towns (now U.S. 12). We love visiting both of them.
A nice fireplace is a huge boost toward hygge, I think. And I’m with you: love writing winter settings! I can’t count the number of scenes I’ve written that feature hunkering or enduring harsh weather.
Same to you–wishing you the very best of the season! Thanks for contributing to the conversation.
I’m a winter person too. Thank you for this Vaughn.
I love the neutral palette and brilliant sunrises/sunsets of November, the gray skies and soft snow of December, and the frigid cold and bright sunny days of January. I just don’t want a whole year of any of these months.
I’m also aware of my privilege–having a job with benefits. Many people in my area work a couple jobs/retail jobs. I can stay home when it snows up a storm. Others risk driving bad roads because they can’t afford to stay home losing a day’s salary.
Hygge. What a great word. It’s nice to know I’m in good writing company! Enjoy these days.
Hey Lisa–You describe the differences in the cold months so vividly. Just perfect. There’s nothing more brilliant than January sun on a fresh blanket of snow, is there?
You’ve touched on something important here. I think understanding–and appreciating!–our blessings is a vital ingredient to hygge. And the one aspect of winter I very much dislike is driving in winter storms. Even a light snow can drive your eyes batty–like you’re living in the game Asteroids or something.
Thanks for your kind words and for enhancing the conversation. Wishing you bright blessings for the season.
So beautifully written, Vaughn. Thank you for this gift—and for the new word which I did NOT know! I do think that different seasons resonate with us in different ways. We need them all.
Hi Barbara! Aw shucks, thanks for your kind praise. And, since the word is new to you, did you know that it’s pronounced “HOO-gah”? I encountered it a few years ago, and had been saying “HIGH-ghee” in my head up until I researched for this post.
Great observation about needing the changing seasons. It’s an excellent addition to the discussion. Season’s greetings!
Vaughn, as I read your post, the gunmetal sky was just beginning to show some brightness. It promises to be a moody, blustery day here, which is my second favorite kind, my first being a snowbound one with temps dipping near zero. People stay home. The world grows quiet.
My father loved winter. He taught me to drive on the ice and took us skating at night under the lights at the pond in Branchbrook Park ( Newark New Jersey looks its best with a blanket of snow). And I learned early that if you were a person with a burn to create something, be it a story or a drawing or a song, father winter was totally your Muse. Your definition of Hygge rings true to me because my well-being has always been connected to doing my work. Having learned about Phillip’s background in the first seasons, I felt sorry for him in the episode you describe. To me, having a purpose is like owning treasure. And speaking of stories in which winter figures large, have you read Mark Halperins ‘A Winter’s Tale’? There’s a chapter where they travel by sled up a frozen Hudson River. It’s absolute heaven. Thank you for a wonderful post and for offering the winter people a place to declare themselves! Here’s to the winter constellations and a warm bright fire. Enjoy this Season of Light!
Oh Susan–such a lovely comment, so wise and evocative (why would I be surprised?).
You’re reminded me of my dad’s love of winter. We had this really hilly park that was walking distance, and Dad would take us over there after dinner, sometimes dragging us along on our “K-Champion” sled, from the Kalamazoo Sled Co. There was one long run that was illuminated by the nearby streetlights, and I can clearly recall zooming through the shadows and into the glow of the final light. Pure exhilaration! And we frequently got hot chocolate when we got home (with mini-marshmallows, allocated for this purpose ONLY!).
I haven’t read A Winter’s Tale, but I’m sold! I love the thought of a frozen river. I always wished we had a skating river–or those canals, like they have in the Netherlands. It would be such fun to skate “somewhere” wouldn’t it?
Thanks, as always, for offering your excellent observations. Here’s to the writerly togetherness of hygge! Wishing you a warm and happy holiday season.
“I am the hygge writer.” That sounds so similar to my ears as “I am Iron Man.” It made be grin. :D
So, something I have been thinking about lately, while not necessarily related to writing (but kind of) is the perception of privilege. What I think you draw out in your post is that while people have privilege, it doesn’t stop them from having feelings and emotions, desires and needs. I think, especially lately, it’s very easy to think people of privilege don’t get to experience dissatisfaction, make mistakes or feel…anything, really. Our societal view of people of privilege is that they have it all, already. And then, when people of privilege express that need or longing for something, they are derided for it. They have all this privilege, how dare they need/want something else, something more? I love how the episode of the Crown takes that on and through good storytelling is able to humanize Prince Phillip and show that all people really are just people. Sometimes privilege doesn’t really fulfill, and sometimes it can be a burden. It’s kind of like the Breakfast Club – when I was the Ally Sheedy character in high school that movie really opened my eyes to the fact that the other side of the grass wasn’t what it appeared, either. And I also appreciated that I had hygge in the rest of my life, where some of the “popular” kids didn’t.
All of my rumination leads me to just say that perhaps that’s why storytelling is so compelling for everyone, privileged or not – we all have feelings and the need for hygge and stories inspire us to believe there’s hygge out there for us, and maybe even shows us how to find it.
Hey Lara–Wow! That’s some serious–and fascinating–introspection you’ve offered us. I’m honored to have instigated your sharing it.
And The Breakfast Club is a really apt example to broaden the scope of what you’re saying. I’ve never really examined that aspect of the film too closely, but it’s so true. I mean I knew they were all from different cliques and were drawn together by common circumstance. But I hadn’t really seen how this element has got to be why the story resonated for so many.
And it really does reveal not just the applicability of story, but its universality and its power.
Thanks much for a really unique and broadening addition to the conversation. Here’s to seasonal rumination, and to striving to be compelling–and universal–storytellers. Wishing you and yours the very best of the season, my friend.
Vaughan, I’m sitting at my desk with sun beyond my window and trees still green, because I’m in CA. But we are moving back to Chicago, where I will once again embrace hygge, and the solitude of darker skies, winds and the brilliance of snow. Even at night in this season, next year I’ll have Christmas lights glowing against the snow and the shadows. I might even have moondust. Life is always about change, but there is one constant in my life that I share with everyone here–writing. Wishing you light and creativity to warm you during this season. Wishing you hygge.
Ah, Beth, that’s a lovely sentiment–embracing change, finding the beauty that abounds and surrounds us, even in the darkest days of the year. That’s an aspect of hygge, for sure.
Thank you for this lovely comment and your well-wishes! Wishing you a lovely holiday season, and smooth changes ahead. (We’ll be neighbors–I’ll wave from across the lake.)
What the HELL is wrong with you people? My skin HURTS. Winter feels like a PUNISHMENT for every transgression I ever made. It takes me at least twenty minutes of debate EVERY MORNING to convince myself to roll out from under my weighted blankie to reach for my cell phone to turn on the HEATER. Hygge’s just another word for nothing left to wear, literally, because I’m wearing seven layers right now. There’s only one good thing about winter, or as I like to call it, eh, at least I don’t have to shave my legs. I do have a very cute hat, though. It’s very high-style hygge. (Merry Christmas to the Mighty Mitten!)
-Dee from San Diego
Dee!! Oh, how I miss you–even our socks versus flip-flop debates. Maybe especially those. (I presume you’ve noticed that I #DeletedFB.) I did think of you while writing this post. I only went back and added the socks after I thought of how you might react.
I’m glad you’re finding hygge in your seven layers. Maybe it’ll appear in the steam rising from the pool some oddly brisk morning, as well.
Thanks for the countering take on hygge. Great hearing from you! Wishing you flip-flop weather that’s just chill enough to keep you in long pants and your cute hat. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
Vaughn, I love winter too—when it’s thousands of miles away, and I can read about it. I live a couple of miles from the frigid California coast: why, once I saw a person wearing a jacket.
I’m not a pal of low-light days—for the last couple of weeks, I’ve been using one of those light-therapy boxes to try and bathe my troubled soul; the verdict’s still out. But I’m definitely a fan of warm socks, congenial company and the Kahlua-in-coffee approach to higge-fying. May your Higge Happiness be like buttah.
Hey Tom–Damn, now I want to go for a splosh of Kahlua in my coffee.
I’m glad you won’t have to experience a truly frigid coast. Here along Mishigami’s shore this time of year, a jacket simply doesn’t do the trick, unless you’re keeping it in the pocket of your parka, to tie on as a face mask to face what hits when you crest the final dune.
I really hope your light box makes the season merrier and brighter for you, my friend. Thanks for making me smile, as you so often do. Hygge cheers!
Solemn sword-wielding-staring-into-the-distance guy in Game of Thrones: “Winter is coming.”
Flip-flop-wearing dude in South Florida: “Nah.”
I purposely left cold weather behind many years ago, so all that grey-sky mitten-wearing stuff has no power over me. That said, my Scandinavian roots make the whole Hygge thing very appealing and resonant to me, and I dig how you tie that to the writing experience. So I guess you could say I’m down with hunkering down.
Happy Hygge-ing!
Hey Keith–I knew there would be a flip-flop contingent on this, and I’m glad you’re speaking up for them. I’m also very glad that the hygge concept warms your warm-climate cockles.
The world is too divided to not feel a hygge kinship with our fellow writers, regardless of climate preference.
Hope your writing is skating along smoothly! Wishing you a lovely holiday season (even if your Santa’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops).
My favorite month is November. The distractions of summer are gone. The back-to-school rush of activities abates. It’s not yet time for holiday stress or driveway shoveling. It’s a quiet month, perfect for writing.
There is something about the melancholy of wet leaves on dark pavement, of hot cider and warm donuts, that makes me want to sit in my study and tap at the keyboard. There’s no January blank screen angst or December hurry-up-and-finish pressure.
The story is well along. The year’s work is paying off. Dots are connecting. Serendipity is happening. The words come easily.
I get you about the quiet of a snowfall forest, the mid-winter fireplace and thick socks. Cocoa is nice. Visiting with friends and family is life affirming. The duvet at bedtime is a comfort.
But give me a year of Novembers. Not for Nanowrimo, that doesn’t tempt me. It’s not a month for connecting–except, I suppose–in alternate years in Salem. In November it’s just my story and me.
Call me Dutch not Danish, but there it is. We’re into winter now and I’m okay with that, even if my fingers are icy and leaving the house or car is an arctic ordeal. Manuscripts need their winter phase too.
Maybe this year I’ll let my mind settle like the quiet, white forest. I’ll picture myself walking with you, feet crunching on a snowy lane, somewhere in the Mighty Mitten, talking story. That sounds nice.
Beautiful post, Vaughn. Happy Holidays.
Hey Benjamin–You’re right, there’s something pretty great about November’s in-between-edness. I’m not a NaNo guy, either. I prefer to let a story unspool naturally, and breathe a little as it wakes into the world. But I have that luxury, so I hold nothing against my NaNo-loving fellows.
Around here, the tourists have cleared out by November 1, and for some reason some of the most awe-inspiring sunsets seem to happen around then. It’s a good time of year for taking Gidge down to the beach after the day’s writing session, rather than before it. I often have really clear epiphanies down there in the late-day glow, and find myself running for my notebook upon our return.
It would be great to have you come by for that snowy walk with story talk. I think you’d like it in my neck of the woods in winter. At least for a visit.
But in the meantime, thanks for your usual dose of insight and inspiration. Here’s to a productive winter phase for our manuscripts. Cheers!
Yes, I love November too: the quiet, the peace, the John Singer Sargent palette. I like winter too, especially the blue predawn light after a night of snow and bundling up to venture out in the cold. Warm wishes for a cold winter to you both.
Thanks, Barbara! Wishing you happy holidays and hygge writing this winter.
“We are solitary but we are never really alone,” because we have all those voices in our head to keep us company! Thanks for explaining why I like winter (in small, RI-sized, doses). I will forward this to my CA friends the next time they wonder how we all “suffer” through the best writing season of all.
Sometimes the warm state friends’ disapproval feels accusatory, doesn’t it?
I think they should all come to the dunes and go tubing, at least once. Sand under snow makes for a soft landing (as do the tubes), and some of our downhill ravines are like nature’s halfpipes. They’d have so much fun, they’d never disapprove of us again.
That’s all without mentioning the best writing season of all. :) Thanks, Carol! Wishing you the perfect sized dose of winter and an abundance of hygge. Happy Holidays!
It’s grey and gloomy outside. The streets are shiny wet. Unfortunately, this is summer :-( and it’s 24 degrees (about 75F).
While winter isn’t my favourite season, I prefer it to summer, partly because our house has a log-burner but no cooling-down equipment.
That said, I prefer the in-between seasons. But here in NZ we tend to get four seasons in a day, which can interfere with really getting into the hyggelig mood with pot of tea, crackling fire, hand-knitted woolly socks…
Ha, I can really see how that might be a problem, Deborah. I mean, you’d be fanning yourself before the coals had cooled, right?
Hopefully, you’re still reaping the hygge-like advantage of well-being through your work. Visiting your homeland is on my bucket list.
Thanks much for weighing in! Wishing you a cool and breezy–and joyful–holiday season.
Vaughn, thank you so much for the pronunciation. I love the word and all it evokes, though I have to join my “flip-flop” sisters and brothers here saying I’m so glad I’m out of winter. I leave NJ before snow even thinks of falling and go back when the northern earth warms up. Yet, I agree, cloudy, rainy days are best for my writing. Something about the dreariness makes me quiet, contemplative, and the whole concept hunkering down sits deep in my soul. I feel warm and fuzzy when I have time to myself, be it sunny or cloudy, even when the beach calls to me, which, by the way, is a wonderful spot to sit and ponder my characters. A quiet place, alone (even in Starbucks I can feel alone), when the words pour onto the page are my hygge. Though, let’s not forget the hygee of cuddling with a loved one watching a good movie, especially about the Royals.
Hey Linda–Yeah, that pronunciation threw me. I’d been saying it wrong for so long, that I keep having to remind myself of the correct one.
As long as you’ve got a hygge-loving, inner peace seeking soul, I am fully forgiving of your seasonal migration flight. And good point about being able to embrace solitude, even in a Starbucks. As long as we’re in the zone, we’re seeking our true selves, and hence, our inner peace.
Thanks for enhancing the conversation! Wishing you many days of secluded seeking, and many evenings of cuddles with your sweetie this winter.