It's my new yankee illness.
Winter used to be my favorite time of year. For some reason the gray skies and bare trees made me feel all creative and stuff. When I was younger I used to sit in the woods and write poetry to the smell of woodsmoke during this season.
Not since I've moved up here.
I don't want to leave the house.
I've got two weeks worth of unanswered email. Thousands and thousands of words of essays blocked up in my head. The kitchen floor needs mopping.
And yesterday I found myself crying for no good reason.
Here on the eve of the solstice, I'm unreasonably proud of myself for getting out of bed and getting dressed. Taking the trash cans to the curb was a monumental achievment.