In a passion from the Winter Gods before the season officially hits, I sit amid an ice storm. Freezing rain has set a hockey ring across the roads, and now it is snowing. Very pretty, and I’m glad I don’t have to travel. Skiing has been on my mind, though, as I hear from friends in Chamonix, where atop Grand Montets there sits two meters of powder. I wanted to ski tomorrow at Chestnut Mountain, but I somehow doubt I will be able to even walk up my drive to where the car is parked safely on flat ground.

So the table-desk is where I’ll be, tapping out wit, sorrow, sex, and I hope some beautiful sentences. If nothing else, there’s liquor in the cabinet and dry wood on the hearth.