One of the things I’ve always respected about you is that you don’t fuck around. I can’t put shit off like I do in December. Oh, I’ll do X after I finish traveling or no one is at work this week so I’ll just wait until everyone’s back to do Y.
No beer in the afternoon because I’m on vacation. The fudge is gone. DP has been cooking a lot and now is too weary to make his amazing everything-but-the-kitchen-sink cookies when people come by.
No one is coming by because it’s colder than a witch’s tit out there (h/t Teri for that image) and no one wants to leave the house. The high later this week is in the tweens. The weather does not fuck around in January.
I don’t have to go to Second Job in January, so I take the extra time and
read work on the Fucker. I’m about a fifth of the way through my current revision. It’s printed out, and for once I’m taking my time. Something must be going right because I finally see places where I make giant leaps that need to be explained better. Filling in the cracks. I hope this will add to my word count. Could I see 65,000?
I don’t know yet, because it’s all on paper. I sit on the couch, under blankets, and edit, listening to the house creak in the wind. Whatever, January. This house has seen 170 Januaries (give or take; poet math). It is unimpressed. I am unimpressed, I lived through the last polar vortex in Minnesota. A high of 12 was warm in those days.