It's nasty out there already, though so far we've just gotten sleet, no snow. Tom's still in bed, stalling on the ugh-do-I-have-to-drive-in-this-mess decision. I threw the cat out one door and he came rushing in at the other door, horrified. It's a great day to sit by the fire, and the cat had better learn his lesson and behave, or else.

This morning, after I get the sheets started in the washing machine, I'm going to sit down and write. I've got a prompt all ready for myself, so I can step right into the job without dithering about "inspiration." I'm hoping to get at least an hour of writing in, before Paul wakes up and comes downstairs to talk to me about college basketball standings or whatever. Then the rest of the day can sort itself out as needed. Probably I'll do some Frost Place stuff, and I have a meeting scheduled for the afternoon, and eventually I'll have to figure out something for dinner that includes leftover chicken (creamed chicken and biscuits? chicken and fennel curry? chicken tacos?). I need to fill the woodbox, and put clean sheets on the bed, and finish reading My Antonia. My friend Janet just sent me a new book that I want to start: a collection of Virginia Woolf's essays curated around the theme of self. I know I've read all of these essays before, but I'm interested to see what they'll be like in this new context.

Meanwhile, the sleet is tapping, tapping at the panes. I hope you are warm and dry, and holed up comfortably in your blanket nest . . . unless, of course, you're outside with your arms wide open and your face turned to the sky, as the sleet peppers your cheeks and the cold air rushes into your eager lungs. Either choice is excellent, and I plan to be doing both today.