On with life . . .

This winter has been perfect for people who want to stay inside and write (like me), but I must admit I'm tired of it and could stand some temps above 30 degrees. I didn't move to North Carolina to have to shovel snow! It's raining as I write this -- cold, wintry rain that makes you shiver just to look at its gray tentacles. The trees are bare, there's a sliver of snow still left on the ground, and the rain is moving sideways. It probably hurts when it hits your face. Every once in a while, this type of weather is good. Makes you stay at home beside the fire, either creating some writing or reading some. Now that my novel is done and the dissertation is awaiting the okay from my committee, I want nothing more than to breathe and to read and, more than anything else, to go outside and take a walk. But not in this weather.

Writing about the cold rain makes me remember an essay I once read by Virginia Woolf. No one can make me feel the dreariness of days like these (London days) more than Woolf. She wrote in the essay about needing a pencil to write and about the trip she took through London streets to find that writer's pencil. Every storefront she passed held a story for her. Every face was a chapter in that story. Even while she walked to get that pencil, she was writing all the while. Beautiful writing. Razorblade sharp writing. Writing that slices to the heart of perception and understanding more than any other.

On days like this, I pray for Woolf's spirit and brilliance.