I've gotten a couple of panicky emails asking where I am. "You haven't blogged in FIVE DAYS!! Are you alive??"
I am. I haven't. I'm sorry.
Here's the thing: the high -- the HIGH -- in Chicago today was 10 degrees Fahrenheit. I don't want to know what the windchill was. The sun was actually out, which was a nice change, but still? Twenty-two degrees below freezing is goddamn cold.
As it turns out, the HR people at my old job changed their minds once more, and they decided to make the job half what I did when I was there and half what I never want to do anywhere, and so once again the universe made that decision for me. Thanks, universe! Anytime you need help making a decision, I got your back.
So this week: no reason to leave the house (with the exception of a fabulous breakfast with my dear friend Kate Cannon on Monday) -- really really cold outside -- aaaaaaaannnd, our internet's broken. Therefore: peaceful hermitage. ("Till old experience do attain /
To something like prophetic strain...." Am I right? J-Milt? Cynthia knows what I mean.)
I've been sleeping a lot, shifting in my bed to absorb what sunlight I can find. For a while, I assumed that it was seasonal depression, back with a vengeance now that I'm firmly entrenched in this midwestern darkness. It came to my attention recently, though, that spending the winter snuggling doesn't necessarily mean I'm depressed. It seems I could also be a bear.
Given a choice between seasonal affective disorder and being a bear, I choose bear.
So dear reader, be assured: it's not that I'm too cold to blog, or too sleepy, or too busy revising my novel. Nope. I'm busy being a bear.