It's cold...cold enough that the roofs behind us are lightly frosted, that the grass in the backyard is crisp and edged with a fuzzy, glittering outline of itself. The dogs seem to like it. Their coats are finally appropriate and it's kinda nice to be able to snuggle down in the blankets and let them settle in around me.
After spending most of my vacation reading as much as I could get my hands on--more non-fiction, oddly enough, than otherwise--I was reading an article in The Atlantic when I came across a poem about a real winter day in an arboretum and realized (not for the first time) that it's time to stop writing. That, in the midst of the constant yammering of books and TV (and blogs, heh heh), it's just time to shut up. I enjoy reading. I have several books spread around the house, waiting for me to pick them up and finish them...maybe to start them again in another season and read them again. So I don't need to add to the clammer of bad fiction, nor do I need to tell the story of some of the grayer areas of my conscience, any of the excuses or reasons that may have pushed me past a season of rejection letters and missed writer's group meetings. The truth is, I enjoy reading more than I do writing.
And, of course, one will need time during next week's warming trend to clean out the pots that one forgot to cover before the frost...
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