Chilly

I cannot really complain about our chilly weather when there are those who are suffering from snow.  But, dang, I have been so cold for days now.  Every morning there is frost outside, and I turn on ye furnace until the house is slightly warmer; but then, ye moment I turn off the heat, these rooms become very chilly once again.  I dress inside as if I were going outside, and that helps a little.  I cannot go outside for my daily walks around the block when it is this cold, because the cold air triggers asthma attacks.  

Days have been spent, moftly, in reading H. P. Lovecraft, as I am going over ye texts in H. P. LOVECRAFT'S COLLECTED FICTION: A VARIORUM EDITION, to be publish'd probably in summer by Hippocampus Press.  I find myself constantly rereading Lovecraft's fiction, and always enjoy it no matter how many times I have read ye tales.  It's like entering a cozy world in which I feel thoroughly at home.  It's the same with Shakespeare, whose characters now, when I watch the plays on telly or read them anew, seem like beloved old chums that I have known forever.

Happily, it appears that I have finally return'd to regular work.  Last week I wrote a new wee thing for an anthology that S. T. is thinking of editing (no firm decision yet at this time).  And this morning I put ye finishing touches on a new story of 3,000 words entitled "Smooth Artifact of Bone," whut I will probably save for my next collection for Centipede Press.  I've jsut found an old abandoned tale, "Maenad of Bone," and I find the 800 words already composed promising, although the title will certainly need to be changed.  I seem obsessed with bones these days...

I hope this finds ye well, my darlings.