One morning last week, we woke in a fog, the grey, socked-in, can’t-see-much-beyond-your-nose kind. Fog is underrated, I thought. Cocooned like this, it’s just the work and me. No gazing dreamily at the Three Peaks’ beautiful painterly colors and the Rockfish Valley’s rolling green meadows. No dog-fur dust bunnies taunting me in gleaming sunlight, or dog-nosed windows clamoring to be washed. It’s a good day to drink coffee, sip tea, and write.
About mid-afternoon, the fog receded a bit, offering glimpses of trees below. Ah, I think I know what to do with that scene. Then the shadowy mountains beyond hinted of something bigger. Hmm, maybe now I know what this book is really about. All too soon, a soft mist rolled back down the Three Peaks and filled the valley, once again engulfing us with moist, cool caresses.
“Did you make good progress on the book today?” Keith asked.
“I think so,” I said, “but until I have a workable draft, I really haven’t the foggiest.”
What do you do on foggy days?
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