Last time I paddle-boarded I hollered to everyone who mitten-pointed at me I AM IN DENIAL

But now I am in love with Winter. Again.

Even these cold grey days that look like they were painted with the leftover colours Grumbacher’s trying to get rid of, the ones with names like Cauldron Fog or Broken Bone or Slumber Forever.

The red walls in my room where I sit in and write are covered in sticky notes and thumbtacked pages and printouts and things scrawled directly on the walls, hanging bits torn from magazines, whatever.

And there’s a beat up and barely legible photocopy of this Anne Sexton quote – the kind of thing you have to lean into to make out – and when you lean into things, a certain intimacy is created don’t you think? (This leaning intimacy is what Daisy Buchanan coveted – it’s why she spoke in such low, thrilling tones – so people like Gatsby would get close. Shhhhhh.)

Anyway, the quote:

I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving, then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything. –Anne Sexton

Also on the walls, written on tracing paper tiles, are story outlines covered in arrows and scribbled additions some of which are probably why my kids look at me sideways and Daisy’s always leery and the cat is so distant and the fish don’t sneer back anymore.

For example:

After Chloe went missing there was some doubt about Harold being buried alone in the lavender

Had I lived, I would have been a playwright

Claire never told anyone the truth about Jess. She left it up to the ghosts.

Guess who’s dead in the bunker and guess who fucking did it???

AND SO ON

But back to winter and the way it leaned in during that first snowfall the other night, all pink and dreamy

Kept me awake, in a good way, but thought I’d find the curtain from last winter which was just a red tablecloth I threw over the ugly rod thing, more because the leaves are all gone and so is my privacy, than the pink sky which I kinda dig.

I decided I’d sew a little pocket at the top for the rod this year because last year it looked ghetto from the street and Charlie left his industrial sewing machine here when he moved out in the summer and I had all kinds of imaginary sewing plans and figured I’d get started but then I saw (sort of) how small the hole in that motherfucking needle was.

I managed to thread the fucker finally and then I started sewing and the thread broke so I had to rethread the needle and then it happened again and again. I moved along three inches at a time, employing for the first time a nice little profanity-string I picked up from a poet I don’t know which goes like this:

Fuck-me-dead!

Grows on you doesn’t it? And it’s no worse than my old motherfucker fave when you think about it which maybe you shouldn’t

I noticed a couple of dots on the fabric and it began to sink in that they were turkey-gravy-dots or maybe cranberry-splotches so I guess I never washed it in the first place and talk about fucking ghetto, right?

Anyway it’s hanging there all half-assed just like last year except maybe a little worse which is a pretty accurate description of me, too, but it’s winter and beautiful and I’m writing like crazy and I hope you’re doing shit that makes you happy too

Sorry for the run-on sentence(s). Think of it as cardio.

Did I mention the work thing? So they said COME BACK WE MISS COLLABORATING and BRAINSTORMING and ALSO LUNCH. Well they agreed, reluctantly, to one cheerful day a week instead of the three they wanted, and I went in on Monday all set to live up to my end of the bargain. Took the GO Train. 1.5 hours there and 2 hours home and in between I did very little due to technical issues and I managed to keep the new profanity string in my head, mostly.

And the creative director who’s been bugging me to come in so we can collaborate? Had his fucking door shut almost the whole time.

Like, fuck-me-dead

There’s a new addition to The Story Parade if you feel like reading or listening. It’s short and short. (I was going to say it’s short and sweet but it’s not. It’s just short. Well. Maybe a little sweet.) Also please pretend the title is Tell Me Something I Don’t Know instead of the stupid one it is.