The house where I live and write is old and full of what they call “charm”.  The ceilings are high enough to make spiders happy, some corners aren’t exactly square, and we can tell when a morning’s really cold just by sticking our noses out from under the covers.

I’m home here alone much of the day, and when I write I switch on my faithful space heater.  It sits on the floor beside my chair like a faithful guard dog, keeping the shivers at bay.  It’s the next best thing to a cat on your lap. 

These days I’m generating some heat of my own, working hard on a revision of my new book.  Looking back in this journal, I see that I mentioned characters named Paris and Disney.  Well, they’ve become Carmella and Shawn, and that’s just the beginning of how much the story has changed.  The other night when I spoke at a library, I mentioned revision, and some kids made faces like they’d eaten rotten plums.  Eeyoo!  But I enjoy it.  My first drafts are always way too rough and sprawling, crying out for polishing and pruning. 

So, the heater’s growling.  The keyboard’s nice and toasty.  And wow, it’s starting to snow.