Winter's a tough season for me, particularly January and February when I battle an overpowering urge to hibernate. Were I independently wealthy, I'd sleep nearly as much as any of my cats. That urge to hibernate turns normally fun activity into drudgery and normal drudgery into...well...let's just say that my usually lackadaisical housekeeping takes a nosedive. You wouldn't want to visit my house during winter. I don't even want to visit my house during winter.
This seasonal attitude affects my writing. Last night, I managed to write maybe a little over a thousand words in Russian Dawn. I couldn't even begin to tell whether the content was any good, so absent is my enthusiasm for anything that doesn't resemble snuggling beneath the covers and sleeping the days away until spring. Hell, I'm not even all that interested in reading anything.
But, it's gotta be done. I can't stop just because my energy levels hover somewhere between comatose and lucid dreaming. I must continue to solicit clients, to chase down freelance projects, to write my books.
This is why New Year's resolutions fail. It's not because people don't want to succeed; it's because doing what's necessary to survive takes everything we've got and leaves nothing to spare for luxuries like goals.
There's a big, gorgeous Victorian house for sale in Dawson, GA, where winters are mild and summer swelters. But the sky above generally beams down sunshine, a contrast to the Miami Valley, which averages 188 cloudy days per year. In fact, of the 10 cloudiest cities in the USA, three of them are in Ohio: Cleveland (202), Columbus (190), and Cincinnati, (186). Seattle, WA and Portland, OR top the list, first and second respectively, but no other cities in Washington or Oregon make that list. The only state that comes close to Ohio in cloudiness is New York (Buffalo and Rochester).
So, yeah, I'll plug away at Russian Dawn and hope that I can finish it by my self-imposed deadline of March 31. If it doesn't happen, check my bed. I'll be hibernating.
Hard boiled, scrambled, over easy, and sunny side up: eggs are the musings of Holly Bargo, the pseudonym for the author.