Slush On

I bought no Christmas gifts for those everyone insists do not exist. There were no cookies and milk for Santa, though we all know that he truly exists. My mother passed on to a place in which all understand that Jesus exists. I have had the flue twice this season and a bit of the latest still persists.

And nothing ruins a perfectly good Winter like slush, right when snow of light white fluff should exist. At the time of year when the greatest of cold hold the records of which books consist.

It leaves me miserable and dumbfounded.

We bought a small, very safe and not too powerful, space heater. We have no ambitions of interstellar travel, but merely needed something to take the chill off; in the bath for my wife and at the writing desk for me (and maybe the bath too).

It makes a difference, both the heater and support from some of my cousins, in my drive to complete my works of fiction.

The slush, this time of year, it goes nowhere and you know it will refreeze into an ugly dangerous mess that will last the rest of the Winter. And Spring is still quite a ways off here.

We removed clutter in a New Year cleaning and have our goals and schedule set for 2018. No excerpts from my writing is planned until I succeed in publishing my next book. I hope to have news on that next month.

I have to remind myself that I have some notebooks in which I had written some poetry.

I wish you all a Happy New Year.

Thank you for reading.