Is it just me or does everyone suffer from this crappy feeling of utter desolation that creeps up on me every winter? I make all these grand plans. I brainstorm. I plot. I make checklists, dang it.
But come December 1st every year the result is the same. All I feel like doing is curling up with a cup of hot cocoa and Jane Eyre. Why I feel like reading about a mad wife in the attic when I’m already blue, I’ll never know. They say misery loves company? I suppose you can’t get much more miserable than a mad wife in the attic.
I’m crossing my fingers for this to pass so I can get to the fun stuff. Namely writing the sequel to Hellbaby.