Another Christmas, another story.
The holiday is on the march, as is my birthday. I'm not particularly thrilled over getting older but I'm so glad Jeff finally showed up.
The new job is good- even though there's loads of little nitpicky things to know, it's not a bad job and my co-workers are very nice and relaxed. Things move at a different pace there- I sometimes wonder if that's due to the fact they don't play music over the speakers. It's silent. Sometimes I just stand there and listen to the beautiful beautiful silence.
My writing is something that happens. I even started a new story today. I was thinking about Concord and Hawthorne and Thoreau, Emerson and Alcott. And I was thinking about Orchard House where the Alcotts lived. The darkness of those houses with unpainted wood. The darkness of houses back then. And a story started making itself in the snow. Something about back then with the hint of me taking a glance at it.

I'm lucky that living in Batavia now isn't the prison it was for me 13 years ago. There is no prison now.