So it's February 2--if I can get this under the wire, which I doubt--and according to a variety of cultural and religious calendars it's time to be anticipating spring. I didn't bother to check on Puxatawny Phil today, because I figured with the ice and snow piling up outside my window I already knew the answer. Imbolc isn't inspiring me to do anything this year but rediscover the joys of hibernation, so if you've been looking for me on Twitter or just about anywhere else, it's been too cozy in the cave to even stir my e-self.
I do have one thing to anticipate--and it seems so very far away--but I turned in my edits on Bad Company and I'm really excited about sharing that with the world in June. But from where I'm sitting under these drifts with regular temperatures in the single digits, June feels equidistant with Mars and just as reachable. Maybe I can melt the snow while I'm working on the next Fragments book--that is if all four of the guys could stop with their individual agendas long enough to have sex.