We've hit the cold snap rather suddenly. Just last week, I was still taking my walks in only a thick sweater over a long-sleeved tee; this week, we're down to below freezing. No more walks for me, certainly no more long, solitary writing sessions on park benches.

To this end, I actually visited a bar near my house - one of the two bars within a 2 block radius and tried to write there. Lacked the right vibe, though - or maybe it was just the shock of the new. Truth be told, I rather liked writing in the other bar; that was great, until one day I befriended both bartenders and pretty much all the regulars. I like solitude and anonymity in my writing process.

Don't know if it's habit or what, but I can only achieve a decent creative flow when I am not at home. The current is strong on park benches, in train stations; stronger still on trains, planes and buses. Fine in bars, coffee shops and restaurants. Great in hotels. But at home, all I can produce (usually; there are exceptions) are stilted rewrites.

I wonder sometimes why that is. Perhaps it's that being away from familiar walls gives a certain kind of third-person perspective that makes it easier to put things into words. I don't know, really. Hard to explain.

Well, of course it is. I'm at home right now.

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