If only I were writing something based in winter. I've got spring rain in England right now. I am, for the record, stunt writing a la Gabe Chouinard this weekend, after which, I'll go back to our regularly scheduled 750-1000 words a day. Since last night, I have consumed a hell of a lot of tea, and stared a bit at Jane Austen, who is currently wearing my wedding & engagement rings over her right arm like a particularly bad, oversized set of gold bangles that would give her a separated shoulder if she were real and they were proprotionately life-sized. I think she's thinking she never signed on to be my ring holder, but there she is, in her little green spencer, smiling eternally and threatening to stab me with her quill if I impugn her dignity much further.
No, I'm fine, really. How are you?