The trees outside the room are green.
The sky is gray.
This room is full of that weird overcast light where it’s too bright outside to turn on the lights indoors but too dark to feel quite right unless you’re directly next to a window.
I don’t know what to write about. They say writers’ block can only be cured by writing, so here I am.
My sister is showering in the next room and she just let out a rousing chorus from Les Mis.
The water pounds.
There is more water in the air outside, shivering with anticipation, just barely held back. It’s as if the sky is still waiting for something, some heavenly cue to let the curtains fall.
The branches sway in the wind, but it is not that rousing gust that comes just before a storm. We have a while yet, I think.
Why is it that people always talk about the weather? I guess because it’s something that’s always there, and something that doesn’t leave anyone out for lack of common ground. You can talk about the weather with a perfect stranger, if you like.
I’m reading John Scalzi’s Lock In right now. It’s terrific, highly recommended.
It also has a really well-designed cover.
I wonder if he’s written other books.
I wonder if Patrick Rothfuss is ever going to come out with the third Kingkiller Chronicle. What a brilliant writer. He has this way of putting words together, like a river flowing over smooth stones.
I hope you all have a wonderful new year.