Driving through Connecticut is harrowing, but not until New York does Stormville appear. There's nothing better than finding a warm, welcoming room at the end of a disrupting ruckus.
The word count last evening took almost until the early hours of this morning. But the words didn't even begin until after supper, after decorating the dining room Christmas tree, after folding Monday laundry, after shopping online, after answering emails, after more cookies. Even at the ashram there are cookies, but they are made with whole wheat and without frosting. Eew.
My, what a small room. Looks like a sleeper car on a train to nowhere. Whole wheat, with a bit of foo-foo fruit thrown in, can even ruin a good beer. Buck up plucky one. The words sometimes get bottled up, but eventually come spewing forth in unbidden torrents. Kind of like another bodily function of which we shall not speak. Eew.
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