Photo from a calendar - no attribution provided.
The picture represents the quantity of snow around my domicile quite accurately, however.
It's not a winter for short-legged dogs.
I shovelled yesterday. A lot. The pile at the end of our drive is now higher than my head. To borrow an expression from hay-making, I shall have to "mow away" -- else exit into oncoming traffic will represent a seasonal form of Canadian roulette -- and our car is white.
In that most boring of writer's statistic, I also increased my MS word count substantially.
If the superstition about what one does on New Year's Day represents a guide to one's activities for the rest of the year proves true, I'll be doing a lot more shovelling in 2008.
You'll notice I did not specify what.
One of my delightful sons-in-law -- besides posessing a fondness for animals, a peculiar sense of humour that fits seamlessly with the Family's style, and loving my daughter -- has developed the endearing habit of trading with me large boxes of books.
Among them was a thriller by James Patterson, 3rd Degree (Warner Books, mass market paperback, 2005), one of the Women's Murder Club series.
Other than his invisible style, which, incidentally, violated nearly everyone of the "rules" about passivity and telling in narration -- as NY Times best sellers seem to do, habitually -- I noticed several interesting things about the novel, though I'm not sure I should try them all at home.
The chapters are snap-shot scenic and very short, averaging three pages.
The story is told from multiple POV's -- facilitated by the short chapters -- including the heroine's in first person.
And I found a frog that turns into a prince in my Christmas stocking.