I'm not really the sort that loves winter sports. Unless you count 'shovelling snow' or 'scraping the ice off the windshield', in which case... no, wait, I don't really love that either. I suppose the right person could convince me to try tubing or snowshoeing or skiing, as long as when I'm done I have ready access to (a) drinks, (b) a fireplace, and (c) an ambulance.
Instead, I've been spending the winter so far surrounded by books. I work part-time at the local libary, which has been great. The patrons (and the staff, for that matter) are the most delightful collection of smart, friendly, and eccentric people.
When I'm not there (and not shovelling/scraping/etc.) I'm locked away in my hovel, scribbling furiously away at the new series. I'm 35000 words into the first book (so maybe halfway?) and it's going great. It's the first draft, so naturally it's still quite rough and/or incoherent, but pages are filling up at comfortable pace. Some new (and old) characters are starting to shine, and I'm having fun getting to know them.
For those of you who love winter, boy, are you in luck around here. Go out and enjoy yourself. When you get back, the drinks will be cold, the fire will have gone out, and the ambulance won't start. But that's the magic of winter. Isn't it?