Jack and I fled to our cabin in the woods for Christmas, thanks to the glorious Jennifer Gough, who shopsat the whole month of December. I got some writing done, and we chilled.

Actually, we chilled in a warm atmosphere, because the cabin is heated by a wood-burning stove in the old stone fireplace. Jack went out every couple of days and wrestled logs into submission, turning work into heat by means of wood. From time to time I printed drafts so I could read via paper instead of screen (it really makes a difference in the editing process). Pages without notes got turned into starter paper for the morning fire; waste not, want not.

Yet therein lies an odd coincidence. Years ago, while taking a writing class at East Tennessee State University, I had to write an autobiographical piece as fiction, introducing myself to the class. At the time, without a cabin in the woods, a book, a bookstore, or Jack in my life, I wrote that in her later years, Welch and her husband secluded themselves in a cabin in the woods, fueled by the surrounding trees and her writings.

Who knew, twenty years ago, that such a silly, small detail would come true? Still, it’s a small thing in a big world, and it’s peaceable, so I’ll take it. Happy day after Christmas, everybody.