I’m a big fan of writing advice–not that it ever does me much good, you see. What good is writing advice to a writer who doesn’t write? But whatevs. It always tickles me to read through the discoveries others have made as they’ve stumbled blindly through that dim room that is the writing life.
It’s been foggy here for the last few days, the air coldish and heavy with moisture. It’s getting me sick. So much fog it leaves you almost struggling to breathe and half wishing for gills whenever you step outside. Cold enough (with the wet) to be bothersome, and just warm enough not to snow. Everything drips. All the time. Cold water torture. January.
Not to talk about the weather, but little more snow wouldn’t hurt: freeze this hanging moisture to the ground and pop out some fat snow flakes or black ice or sleet or whatever. Freeze the fog it out of the atmosphere. Dry out my incubating sinus gak that comes with all this chokey wet air. People complain about winter all the time, but a snowy winter is always preferable to The Drip, or (worse) no winter at all. It doesn’t get you sick, and it’s pretty–even if that whole thing gets old after a couple months.
Winter should be more reliably winter each year. Great blizzards. Snow days. A steady few inches of the white stuff on and off throughout the week. Not this thick, icky drip. Um, waiter… more winter in my winter, please.