Fuck knows, I should be Outside. But then who would be writing this book? I have never been so ground down by a winter as I have this year, and every winter is hard on me. But this one is an overachiever. It means to see me fucking dead. The air in the House is so dry it's something like rubbing alcohol at this point.
Yesterday's stale Hell:
Yesterday, I wrote only 1,087 words on Chapter Five of Cherry Bomb. I'd have done more, but the internet went down, and it's been more than a decade since I've been able to write without access to the fucking internet.*
Nothing happens here; absolute zero.
* I've been working on the novel since August. It was only supposed to take me ~45 days to write.