Outside it is snowing, thick like powder sugar. By the time I leave work I will have to dust my car. The drive home will be wet and slippery, and my hands will white-knuckle the steering wheel.
J’s dog is in the office. His name is Bogart, as in Humphrey Bogart. We call him Bogs. He sniffs about, but mostly sits at my feet, near the heater. J has been working all morning on cleaning a serger, which he bought for his wife. Apparently she is quite the sewer. I can quilt, but lack the patience to make it any sort of hobby.
Tiffa and I made cookies last night, which involved Dove chocolate, more chocolate, cashews, and plenty of sugar. By Christmas day I am going to be sweetened out completely.
I haven’t written much of anything lately. What I write is dull and trivial and uninteresting, so I push it aside. I keep hoping I will jump out of this bout of hate-my-prose, because it has been weeks. Characters are flat, dialogue is boring, and plots wearisome. I know I simply need to write, push through the barricade and not care one way or the other.
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