I'm in hibernation mode. It's dark when I get up, it's dark by mid-afternoon. I don't mind that it's cold, but I do mind the lack of light in the sky. I was sick for a week a couple weeks ago, the week when we had snow. I lay in bed looking out the window onto a white ground and a white sky and it was lovely, like being all wrapped up in white. That's gone now unfortunately.
Post-NaNo news: I have done nothing with my very rough draft of 50,270 words. No, I take that back. I sat down the other day for a while and wrote one beautiful paragraph of the next draft. Mostly I've been reading again because there was no time to read in November. I read Great Expectations and now I'm on the lookout for a second hand copy of Oliver Twist. Yes, it's a Dickens phase. Maybe I'll read Bleak House again, over the holiday break. Someone asked me the other day, "But what do you do when you stay in Brussels over the holidays?" – in that mystified tone people use when you tell them you're staying home – or is it the staying in Brussels part that mystifies? Anyway, I am equally mystified, because who wouldn't stay home and lounge around in a state of blissful reading over the holidays? Punctuated by a few trips out to ice skate? Why on earth people subject themselves to air travel and constant social activity is beyond me.
Because There Is No Ending, by Pimone Triplett
2 hours ago