Weather Station.

Four tenths. At least so far, anyway, says the ANYLF rain gauge. And fifty degrees on the screen porch. Total weather station cost: Two dollars and change for the rain gauge, and something close to the same for the thermometer, if I remember right: I've had it for years. Standard round thing, salad-plate-sized, red pointer. More rain's coming in later this evening.

I spent the morning planting pansies. It's December 28. By all rights it should be too cold, too something, but there they were at the store, the last few pansies, and I couldn't leave them there. Cut the pampas grass back for the winter, finally, and that left space for more flowers, which meant, of course, more flowers. Pansies are supposed to need 40 days in the ground before the first hard freeze. That rule's either for harsher climes than 27408's, or it won't matter: we could well go 40 days without a hard freeze— except that a quick check of the forecast shows us headed for 19 next Wednesday and Thursday nights. I like the fatalism of it, anyway. Plus it rained them in all afternoon.

The writing studio has no insulation in the roof, which makes it ideal for an evening rainstorm. Cup of tea, a few terrible paragraphs. But it's coming. It's getting better. I've got January off to write, and AMR is headed for London, so there's a little voice somewhere out back saying Write, goddamnit, write. Get it together, the voice says. Get his wife in the driveway yelling at him. Get his kid out of bed and get him dressed. Get his wife and his girlfriend into the same room. Make sure when things happen that those things get filtered back through the characters' consciousnesses. This is, after all, what you tell your students, over and over again. If it's good enough for them, it's got to be good enough for you. Make it new. Make it new. Make it new. Finish your book.

It's starting to rain again.