These days, my brain is completely preoccupied with a) anxiety about the auto industry and b) the chaos of the holiday season.
Book? What book? I'm supposed to be writing a book?
The task of sitting down and spinning ideas into reasonably comprehensible prose seems even more impossible with the lack of sunlight, short days and hostile weather. It has felt much colder than usual--this Saturday I made the boy critter walk with me to the Farmer's Market when it was 18 degrees out. We got down there, got our 2 dozen eggs and we were about 1/2 a mile from home when I felt like I was ready to give up (the boy was fine, having fun kicking chunks of ice). I whimpered for the remainder of the march, then came home and sat in the tub until my thighs defrosted.
So that does it. I'm taking a break from the book; maybe once the holiday piano recital, the school multicultural fair and other holiday get togethers are over I can contemplate having enough of my brain back to devote time to my characters. But right now, it is dopey to keep fighting an uphill battle and making work that has been a wonderful pleasure into a chore.