Sitting here in my office determined to not use the little electric heater…wondering if we are going to skip summer and move right back into winter; visions of cold attics, finger-less gloves, icicles dripping from my nose; staring at a blank screen; wondering why I got into this miserable writing business; enjoying a snit. And then, for some unknown reason, I vaguely remember the story of Cervantes writing Don Quixote with the stub of a pencil (I think it was a pencil…I’d better check on that) by hand on any scraps of paper he could find.
Poof! There goes my five-minute snit. Dang. And I was just getting into this business of feeling sorry for myself.