So I missed yesterday’s post. I have an elaborate excuse involving rogue nuclear weapons, a batch of muffin batter gone horribly wrong, and Sean Penn’s forehead, but honestly I just spent the morning taking it slow and having a nice cup of coffee (still on the caffeine, yes). And the muffin batter hadn’t gone that horribly wrong, so it all turned out just fine.
On to the next distraction. Because it’s Monday, and because I’ve been cranky all week, this is likely to be more of a complaint than an actual discussion topic, but seeing as it’s 17 degrees out, I’m going to stick with the complaint: It’s goddamn cold out.
Granted, this is not Moscow cold, nor is it even Indiana-winter cold (and it’s certainly well above “spit goes clink” cold), but damn, I’m tired of winter. I’d rather not have a sheet of ice on our front steps or a muddle of uneven ice for a sidewalk, and while the snow is beautiful, there’s been quite enough of it. And there are months to go. Months!
I’ve often found myself writing about warm times when I’m cold, just to remember the way it feels to be warm again. That helps, but stepping back from the writing when I’m done is then a little colder.
Are there any books that warm you up — stories of the tropics, desert planets, and so on? Any books that are best read under a comforter with a cup of cocoa? Or should I just move straight to the hot toddy and brandy method of warming up?