Kurt and I shoveled the driveway--all 500 steep curving feet of it. And that took some doing, let me tell you. We shoveled it all, only to find the street is still not drivable without chains and four-wheel drive. Neither of which we have. So we're not heading out to spend Christmas with Kurt's family after all. And I don't mean to complain, because after all, it translates into more writing time for me.
But seriously. We haven't had a mail delivery in seven or eight days. We haven't had any TV reception in five days. The melting ice is so heavy, it's torn the gutters off the house and last night wrenched the satellite dish off the roof. The Bainbridge Review has made it through, but the only Seattle Times we've gotten in the last week has been the Sunday edition. Stir craziness has set in in a major way. We do have power, but we're keeping the heat down to conserve, and frankly, it's too cold to concentrate on writing. The saving grace is the beautiful redheaded woodpecker banging on the willow tree outside the dining room window, where I'm sitting now.
If you're on the island, or anywhere else in the Northwest, for that matter, you're probably experiencing similar weather. So let's imagine ourselves settling back in at our desks and grinding out another scene together for our respective novels. Maybe if you build a fire in the fireplace, the muse will come and sit a spell.