I live in the Southeastern US, and today it is snowing. People lose their minds when it snows in SC. So funny and silly to watch and listen.

I left the gym this morning thinking that I had the rest of the day to write. I listened to others in the gym. They were going home to snuggle up and vegetate. Do nothing. Watch television. Chill.

To all the writers out there, weather and chaos are a reason to write. I intend to get some serious writing and editing done. Fate has handed me these hours, so dang it, I’m snaring them and taking advantage.

When moments fall into your lap where you have to sit, or life slows down, or there’s waiting involved or nothing urgent in play, you ought to be writing. It ought to be the go-to task you automatically pick up when you aren’t involved in anything else more pressing. (Of course, priorities and the definition of pressing are on you.)

That’s a lot of hours, y’all. Figure just three hours a week at 500 words each. Three hours carved out of 168. That’s 78,000 words a year. That’s a book. people. In a year.

You can’t get much more doable than that.