I can’t fin any mention of it anywhere on the internet, but a long time ago a friend told me that in France when it’s raining that sprinkly, pidling rain, they call it “Cat Spit” rain. That seemed fair to me. It’s like loads of cats are spitting down on you. 

Right now it’s Scout Scratch raining, the noise of the hail against the door and windows sounds like Scout trying to get in or out. When she needs to use the bathroom or is tired of being out in the cold she’ll calmly paw at the door glass to get our attention. She can do it for a long time, mostly trying to get out. We don’t abandon her outside unless it’s very nice out, but even then, she’s quite insistent. 

It’s that time where I write here about wanting to write fiction instead of just writing about fiction. I’d be too nervous to use this time of gut-spilling to write fiction, which is a slow and largely excruciating process for me. Plus it’d mean you, dear audience, could read it. And we can’t have that. 

Mostly it’s a reminder to myself to write. 

Write! You!
You! 
Write!

That ought to do it.