I’ve been thinking of writing ode to my boiler – along the lines of ‘oh my boiler who doesn’t work’ or something like that.
There’s definitely something different about sitting down to write, shivering from cold. Perhaps wrapping a blanket round the shoulders, a warming drink.
A sharp cough into my tissue, my throat raw from a virus (yes, I’m a trooper, I know ;-0). And then summoning the spirits of Dickens and the like – You know, the ones who would have shivered for inspiration – I begin to write. As I sit in my bleak house (see what I did there?) my writing begins to take shape. Plus the process proves effective for warming the very tips of the fingers.
Hard times, indeed.
What I’ve produced has very little to do with great literature. But it was work done in chilly circumstances, so that seems a bonus. So I have great expectations for the next time I write. Hopefully with our mutual friends central heating and hot water.
Now back to that ode…