You can feel the weight of your hair on your head. Sweat stings your skin no matter what you do. The smallest thing irritates you. Its what heat does.
I don't know too many writers (maybe none) that wax poetic about writing in the heat. Most of the time they talk about how they snuggle up with a warm cup of tea and flannel pajamas to write. The crackling fire in the background inspires them. The gray clouds of a winter sky put them into a writing mood.
I'm not any different. I remember when I started writing wholeheartedly I went to Mervyn's and bought thermal underwear, preparing for chilly days in front of the computer screen.
Writers are a persnickety lot. They want things perfect. And yet they write about imperfection. They torture, punish, and all around work at making their heroes and heroines, make-believe people they profess to love, miserable.
Perhaps perfect comfort is the wrong approach to writing. Honestly, I write better when I'm upset or emotional. Writing is cathartic and it puts my focus onto something else besides my own misery. Not always do I feel like writing when I'm upset, but if I can, I am most certain to produce some great prose.
Maybe instead of looking to our physical discomfort as an excuse to not write, we should embrace it, take our own misery, magnify it, and pour it onto the page. Wouldn't it also help us forget our own suffering?
I'm pretty certain Shakespeare did not have central air. Rumor has it he didn't have a laptop or a PC. Writers from the past certainly had it a lot more miserable than us. So before you walk away from the computer screen, think twice, sigh, grab a big glass of ice water and write.