Last night, rain and fog. This morning, 6 inches of snow. Utah weather.
I look out the window at an undisturbed expanse of white. (We'll forget the view from the front windows for now).
A few years ago I started a book that I've had a very hard time finishing. Partially because of the subject matter (a young woman running from an abusive relationship) and partially because it has a religious undertone and I wanted it to be right.
I went through phases with this book. I would get stuck for months on end, not able to write a word. I'd get ideas for parts that I hadn't gotten to yet (and writing them would have been against my own rules). I lost the entire manuscript once, and the backups were corrupted. I was able to pull out about half of it from the pieces so I basically had to rewrite the rest. But it turned out better.
I finished it in October, and I've let it sit ever since. Some of the scenes are disturbing, and the boyfriend freaks me out.
And yet in spite of all the fog and rain, I read it last week and then just sat back and sighed. It's right. The snow has fallen, covering the bones of my disaster with lost diamonds in the snow.
Other people might disagree. Probably will, but that's OK.
I'm content with it.
Eventually the snow will melt, but in this case I'm not going to rush spring.