On days where I�m suffering from writer�s block, I really miss being in the city. Actually, I miss being in the city just about every day. It�s just so damn bucolic out here. Birds, horses, snow, ice, SUVs, children on sleds. It�s February and I hate them all.

I always try to hate everything in February. It frees me up for enjoyment the rest of the year and nobody ever seems to hold it against you when you�re grumpy in February. Sometimes some scheduled time for wallowing in self-pity is just what the doctor ordered.

I have had to work hard to squelch any inclination towards spring hopefulness today. A stomp around the garden in the deep snow yesterday afternoon revealed embryonic buds appearing on the lilacs, forsythia and pussywillow. I�ll have to try to think sobering wintry thoughts as I place my annual order from my favorite nursery.

AJ finally seems to have fallen asleep, so I�m off to dig into a major rewrite of chapter 1. I�m hoping it�s not going to be too painful, and I�m actually feeling in the mood to curl up somewhere with my pile of pages. And a big, fat red pen.

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