Today I drove almost 400 miles, with both a snowstorm and ice storm looming on the horizon. I arrived in Chicago, or Chicagoland to be more correct, through sleet, and it’s continued to rain and ice all day. The roads are wet and mushy and slick, and as the temperature drops everything starts to harden. I’m currently holed up in hotel, drinking Irish whiskey and glad to be out of the frigid weather. My dog’s lying nearby, napping.
It sounds like a way to start a short story or something. Perhaps I should. Except the hard part would be to write the next paragraph. I couldn’t use the same source because the above is true, and frankly, my life isn’t usually interesting. And despite what will be an adventurous trip out one more time tonight so the pooch can do her business, not even I’m interested.
As this year starts to come to a close I’m thinking about what are my goals for next year. Write a short story? Write that story that I’ve been toying with for the past year or more – the thirteen days that changed the world? or, my world, at least. I feel I’ve got a number of projects weighing me down right now, I just need to get through the winter. Perhaps start anew in the Spring. But there’s a story lurking there, perhaps even an epic one, if I could only get it started.
The wind whipped on occasion, slightly altering the rhythmic tempo of the ice drops pelting the windows. Before bundling up one last time, I reached for the Jameson…..