We’ve all heard about writers poring over their work in freezing garrets, but I never thought to be one. First, I live in California, where the sun is always shining, it never rains till after sunset, by eight the morning fog must disappear…oh, wait, that’s Camelot. Sorry. And second, I make enough money from my day job to pay the heating bill.
Which is a good thing, because I can’t write when it’s cold. It turns my mind to a slushy mess (as opposed to a general mess), and I get all hunched up and the words don’t flow like they should. Which is how I was tonight. I’d gotten up over 500 words (and miles to go before I sleep), but they felt slow and hard-packed. So imagine my surprise (not) when I walked by the thermostat to discover that I had never reset it from last night when I went to bed. No wonder my brain felt cold! I was cold! (No, I’m not going to say how cold. I will admit, however, that outside of California people would be laughing at me. Except for the Hawaiians. They know how to spend the winter: surfing.)
I can already feel my joints loosening as the temperature rises. Soon I will bask in the pleasure of freely-flowing sentences and long, effortless paragraphs. The words will slide easily from my brain through my fingers to the screen. My language will climb the heights of sublime exaltation. Hugos and Nebulas will be mine.
Some day. For now, I have another thousand words to write. Then I have to freeze my gifted fingers off taking out the garbage, after which I’ll try to warm up again.
Maybe I should just write in bed. If it was good enough for Mark Twain and George Orwell, I’m willing to give it a try.