Ah, yes—the bleak midwinter. A time for eating frozen pizzas and warm soups, washed down with hot, black coffee. A time for turning in early at night, indulging in the warmth and comfort of fleece sheets and heavy quilts.
I see why bears hibernate right now: ’tis the season for coziness, to embrace the hygge. I certainly eat like a grizzly preparing for a few months of hibernation, but I don’t sleep off the excess fat stores. It just gets added on until another round of gastrointestinal self-denial kicks in after I gaze at my double chin too long.
It is with the spirit of the hibernating grizzly that I write this post. I love writing, but like most writers, that love is sometimes coupled with hate—or, in my case, weary indifference. It comes in waves, most of them brief, but I’m currently riding one at the moment—or flailing about frantically amid it, my head occasionally dipping below into the briny deep.