I’m home. We have a working source of heat. Unfortunately, the house is roughly 50 degrees at the moment, which means hugging my cup of tea is less luxury and more necessity right now. There are far worse situations to be in, so I’ll hug my tea happily.
Good things of note: kind people are wonderful. I really don’t have any more to say on the subject. They just are.
I’ll come back soon to post something other than griping. (No, no exciting news or anything, just a promise to do more than complain.) In the meantime, I have to go rewrite a synopsis for Wren, and reassure the cats that they will not have to go live in a strange basement again anytime soon. Although the thought of napping in my own bed is a tantalizing one….
So, I said twenty-four hours, but apparently I meant a week. Sometimes life goes like that. Sometimes you discover you have ten thumbs, and writing is all but impossible, even when you just want to write something brief and helpful.
Strange Horizons is holding its annual fund drive. All the important details can be found here. Remember, Strange Horizons is staffed entirely by volunteers. All money raised goes towards things like buying stories and poems and nonfiction. This year their goal is higher than in past years, as they would like to increase their pay rates for poetry and nonfiction, and I’d love to see them achieve it.
A well-edited magazine creates its own world, just as surely as a writer creates hers with her writing. The one to be found at Strange Horizons is alive and thriving, honest and beautiful. Please consider supporting it.
I drink a lot of tea. I drink tea from the largest mugs we have, more like baby beer steins than mugs. Gray, with brown and blue stripes, and handles large enough to keep my knuckles from pressing against the hot surface.
I have a wonderful small cast iron teapot that I used to use for masala chai. Then I discovered that I really can’t handle the caffeine in black tea. I could switch to decaf, I suppose, or I could put some other looseleaf tea in it, but I don’t. For me, the pot exists to hold just one kind of tea. Hope, it also holds my hope, funny as it sounds, that someday I’ll be the sort of person who can drink caffeinated chai without ending up in a panic.
Instead, I drink peppermint tea. I drink jasmine. I drink decaf black tea, with honey and milk, which is nothing like masala chai, and not really even much like something I enjoy, but I pretend because it makes me feel like a grownup. Sometimes I drink ginger tea, made with grated ginger root.
I drink tea because I enjoy it, but also because of the ritual. Slow down, it says. Be here for a moment. Mug, water, tea, honey, spoon. Nothing more is necessary.
I’m leaving comments because I’d love to hear about necessary rituals, writing or otherwise.