The numb earth rejects winter’s warm blanket. My frigid fingers hover above the keyboard, too cold to type. Stories that flowed like a bubbling river last year now freeze mid-stream. Tomorrow it will thaw, I say, but winter is long in these parts; words hibernate. White space fills the pages like snow. The wind chill like my word count is below zero. But life stirs beneath the surface, sprouting amidst the ice. Things are growing, budding, beginning to bloom and take root. Tomorrow the blossom appears and the white space will be riddled with tangled tendrils of tales to be told. I promise they are there.