“It is impossible, to me at least, to be poetical in cold weather.”— George Eliot

This week’s prediction is for our temperatures to hover around the freezing mark. When it is this cold, my fingers grow stiff and unresponsive, and my mind refuses to produce pretty words. The only syllables escaping my lips are coarse, blue enough to make a sailor blush, and end in “its cold.” I have become a master at timing my forays into the kitchen for a hot drink and snacks so that my carefully constructed blanket nest is still warm when I return. I agree with George while I have never claimed to be poetical, writing in cold weather is impossible.

Did you write yesterday? Are you writing today?

Did you write yesterday? Are you writing today?

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer