Every September I begin to feel the depression of the onslaught of winter. Not that I mind winters so very much. Once the temperature begins its descent to zero and climbs to 20 during the day ( well it does sometimes) I begin to shudder.
I hate -30 or below. Temperatures of -5 or -10 can be tolerated. You put on an appropriate jacket with a hood to protect from the wind and you’re good to go. Unless of course there is ice underneath your feet. When you’re eighty years old and wracked with arthritis struggling with uncertainty in footing is dangerous. And so there lies the rub. Winter can be ok but dangerous.
So I hide inside, dust off the treadmill, and vow to write six pages a day. In two to three months I have another novel completed. Arthur Slade created a writing platform on his treadmill so that he could exercise while he wrote. An attempt, I think, to lose some of the weight he had acquired while sitting at his keyboard. I don’t know whether he was successful or not at losing weight that way. I’m not that ambitious. But I may try this winter to spend more time on the treadmill. I certainly intend to finish the third novel but a fan was looking for a sequel to Can Madness Be Far Behind? when I said I was working on the next novel. This one is far removed from that sequel but I am now looking at writing the sequel in the Spring after I have finished the horrific thriller biography of a sex crazed gentleman. I don’t have a title for it yet not even a working title. Unusual, I know, but that is where I am in the state of things. Winter is coming! Brrrr!
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