We All Float Down Here, Georgie…
It’s Cold Here
The cold days let my brain finally turn around and say “Hey, we can write” while the rest of my house is freezing. Of course, this means I’m wearing a heavy sweater and am barefoot (after all, writer’s are quirky, aren’t they?). But this is a good thing, since one of my editors asked this morning about the status of a horror story I’m wrapping up (I swear I’m editing it right this moment, well, this moment after writing this entry) and I need the cold to survive.
Yes, I know I should move up to Alaska, that I’d be happier there. But the job market there sucks worse than here.
(Plus their housing market is pricey in Anchorage)
Besides, who would go with me? I’d NEVER get to go to any cons up there.
But… other than John Ringo (who swears that there has to be icicles forming on his ears before he can write), do other writers have certain temperate requirements? Must there be three kittens present, or merely two (who both, btw, control your auditory controls)? Lights bright, dimmed or off?
Share with me, please. I’m