Self-pity, then over it

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Boyohboy, have I ever been a sad, self-pitying sack these last few days. I spent our too-brief fall – the reward after our choking summer of smoke – mostly indoors, slogging toward a book deadline, my chair turned away from glory mocking me from the window. Then, literally the day I sent off the ms., the weather turned.

Snow would’ve been fine, but this was freezing rain and a vicious wind that tore the last of the golden leaves from the trees. Just miserable. And then I got sick, spending damn near twenty-four hours in bed with a headache so crushing I could neither read nor watch TV nor sleep. Misery squared.

The headache finally eased, I finally slept, and when I awoke, the wind had stopped, the rain had turned to snow, and the world had gone magical. I know that by February I’ll be sick of it, but the first snow is always a treat. Right now, it’s drifting down again. The dog is at her perch by the window, watching it fall. Soup is simmering on the stove. The sweetie is parked in front of a football game, and I’ve just clicked open the ms. for Book Seven. Life is just about as good as it gets.


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