Then came one of the coldest winters in its recorded history.
In March, it would fake spring by getting up into the high 50s / low 60s, before snowing the next day. I stopped getting excited that maybe spring was coming after the first three bait and switches. The start of April, according to the news, was the coldest in 147 years.
Last week, I left Chicago for a short family visit in the South. The South is already having summer, by the way. When I left Chicago, it was 55 degrees. When I returned, it was 88. Apparently, there is no spring this year. We went from winter straight into summer. That, or spring happened the four days I was gone. Either way, I feel gypped.
My allergies feel it too. They can’t decide what to do with themselves. Unfortunately, that means I’m miserable until they can get it together.
On the plus side, I outlined a potential story on my plane trip. I admit, it was inspired by my seatmate, but I’ll take inspiration wherever I find it. And maybe, just maybe, this will be the season in which I finish another story. Hopefully my writing will be a little more predictable than the weather in Chicago.
Go forth and write!