I’m writing this book.
Well to be fair, I’m always writing a book.
But this one’s about snow – and there hasn’t been any. It is kind of chilly, and without socks my feet are seeking out the patches of sunlight on the rug, but there’s definitely been a shortage of snow round these parts.
I so thought it would happen. I’ve left all the snowy scenes to write, assuming that at some point it would plump out of the sky and turn the countryside black and white, which was very lazy of me, I know. But I wanted to hear the crunch. Measure the resistance as I place my foot. See how the sheep look – all that stuff.
But as a writer, I’m used to this.
Usually, I’m in the freezing cold, trying to feel hot sand burning the soles of my feet, or imagining sunlight on fresh grass. Generally, I find myself trying to recreate the smell of deckchairs, or ice cream, or sun cream.
But that’s what our imaginations are for.
Snow. In the sunshine.