We got some fresh snow yesterday and last night, about six or seven inches. One of our biggest snowfalls so far this year, and in the middle of January, that's saying a lot. An unusual year, but then, in Vermont, the usual weather is unusual. It was enough to make my drive home from school yesterday a bit slippy, especially in the untreated lot at my daughter's high school where the hockey team could have happily practiced (not that I'm complaining or anything!) It's bringing the birds into my feeders which have been lonely this season. Shoveling is good exercise, I tell myself.
I feel like all my posts have been about the weather lately, but I am writing, honestly. I'm in the middle of three projects, which seems to be my pattern lately. This turns into a bunch of releases all at once, which keeps me so busy that I can't write anything new, and then I have a writing period with no releases. When I'm in the middle of a release cycle, I sputter that I don't have any time to write, and when I'm writing, I sputter that everybody is going to give up on me and forget who I am. Then I remind myself that The Dragon and the Mistletoe was released just a month ago, and it's getting lovely reviews, so I don't have anything to sputter about. (I really like that story, too.)
My projects -- another dragon story (I mean, we really can't have a proposal without a wedding, can we?) a unicorn story to spice things up a little, and the end is in sight for my next novel, Another Healing, which I'm taking slowly but steadily.
As much as I love Vermont and its seasons, I have to admit that this is my least favorite time of year. Winter has set in for good, and often we have day after day of grayness like today. Waiting for spring is an endurance sport. One morning this week, it was so cold that my damp hair froze on my way from my car into the school. Storm after storm keeps the roads a nightmare. Everyone is growly and hibernation seems like a good option.
When I a kid, I embraced winter. On still nights, I would put on my skis and fly around the field across from my house, alone with the trees and the moonlight and my thoughts. Now at night, I'm so tired that I can sit forever and just stare at the last sentence on the screen. It's not writer's block -- I have as many ideas as I've ever had, thank goodness -- it's just that I don't have the energy to get my fingers to move.
Life is different now. I worry about my parents more than I do about my children.
And one of my long-time friends from college has breast cancer. I don't know if it's something you fight, or live with, or endure, or race -- I just know that I've already lost two friends in the last few years, and I don't want to lose another. It's especially sad because she was just months away from adopting a child from China after waiting on the list for five years. She hoped to make life better for some unwanted little girl, but instead she's having to focus on her own life in a whole new, scary way. I don't know if she will ever have a child now, or not. Thursday night on the phone, she told me that the first few stands of her hair had just fallen out. I tried not to let her know I was crying, but I think she knew.
At times like this, the warmth of spring feels far off, but wishing it were here seems like wishing my own life away when every moment is something to treasure.