The 8th is always a significant day. I’m glad when it’s over. It’s the grayest day of the new year, actually, which is kind of a relief.
Rain seems appropriate, if disturbing. A Christmas card I received featured two polar bears with martinis on a small ice floe. You’ve seen it. One says to the other, “The bad news is, we’re running out of ice.” It’s a cartoon. A scary one. We should be shoveling. We should be playing pickup hockey or learning to skate backwards in riverside parks. Instead we’re British, black-umbrella-ed and rushing from shelter to shelter.
I’ve worked through a draft of the novel project with some serious help from New York. Couldn’t have done it without you.