it's late afternoon, but about ten degrees outside, actually fairly typical for western illinois, i suspect. nobody seems too alarmed by it. yesterday when i walked the dogs, i slipped five times, so today, i worked on the walk a little, so we and the mail person wouldn't fall, and then i gave up, came inside, didn't walk the dogs. the sun is setting on the ten-degree neighborhood, and i'm in here typing.

i'm a little stirred up, actually. i've been spending all my time reading other people's work, and that's somewhat enjoyable, but i'm not finishing my own or in some cases not writing any of my own. there's only so much time in the day. it's always easier to read than to write. after i have my coffee, i just want to read some more. today i fixed the sink and did some cleaning but basically i wanted to read, and i did. now i'm tired; i'm not sure i'll write anything.

so it's gone for months now. no novel on the table, but three unfinished ones stalled. some rewriting happening, since i'm unhappy with some of what went out earlier. but even that's a slow process. it's not easy to pick up the clunky computer that has word.

meanwhile a heart report came in. that is, because i'm old, i'm really not supposed to be taking powerful meds. it was a relief to me, since i kind of suspected that. but it's disturbing too, a wakeup call. if you're not going to write the language book now, when will you? time to get that show on the road too.

the weather will break; it won't stay ten forever. even tomorrow will probably be warmer than today with its ten high. the sun keeps shining and the days get longer. eventually it will all thaw.

question is, how many of these seasons do i have left in me, and what am i doing about the shorter nature of each one. my time is running out.