First words. The challenge of a blank page.
My waking, this morning, was to a queer white light. The room was bathed in the sharp chill of it. Turning toward the 12 paned window – eyes reluctant and blinking – I was gradually able to focus.
And there it was. The steep valley banking opposite was muffled in snow. Thick. Huge clots of it weighing down the old fir tree tiers.
There was just a little hesitation before I threw off the heavy duvet and planted my feet on the cold wood of the floor – but desire to see the village before the traffic trammeled and pummeled the snow to slush, was sharper than the need to remain wrapped in the heat of my bed.
And oh how beautiful it was. The black slate roofs were lost under a heavy snow-layer; the road had disappeared; and the cars were almost gone – indistinguishable from the shrouded landscape of rubble-sandstone walls and snow.
A sudden intoxicating desire to race to the road middle and to be the first to leave my print – and I struggled on with my boots; wrapped my long coat over my nightdress and took a lunar step out over the heavy ridge of snow wedged at the door.
My third step brought me face-to-face with the newspaperman… Don’t know who was more surprised!
This is surely the way to start every day…