Busy is so much better than the opposite. I am working on a new book, rewriting and editing an old one from younger days, trying to figure out how to re-do my old blog using frustration sighs and unfinished "What the..." sentences, waiting on cover approval, and reading a wonderful novel. I want to pull my hair out, if I had any.But I still enjoy busy.
I look outside and cannot find a reason to open the door and go through it. As I glare through icicle laced windows there is a foot of snow, deer tracks, and forty foot trees that are straining and crying as limbs I couldn't wrap two hands around bend with the frozen white weight.
I stay busy inside the house at my desk in the loft.
I think of my friends that spend six weeks each year in January at a tropical island with fruit adorning icy drinks brought out on warm sand. They are watching birds darting the shallow waves for food and palms waving slightly as a heated breeze passes by. They are surely going to Hell.
I even miss mowing the lawn which seems very close to sitting in a dental chair during summer months. But, perspiration sounds better than goosebumps.
I think I'll brave the twenty something degrees and go to the Gym. Headphones and running on a belt.