The great French novelist Colette wrote in bed. So did that great Yankee Edith Wharton. (Why do only women writers write in bed? It’s hard to imagine Ernest Hemingway under the covers, tapping away at his Underwood.) Anyway, I too am writing this right now, at 10.20 a.m., in bed. Not just because I am imitating these great, and even better, productive women writers. But because it’s bloody freezing out, we are buried under snow drifts with more snow on the way, and it’s hard to concentrate on fine prose when your feet are cold.

Any excuse will do, right? Feet cold = can’t work. Must drink wine instead.

Sometimes I get a headache from all the words roiling around in my head. How to get them out? And in the right order, and the exactly right words too, telling the right story? That people will actually want to read? These are the simple mysteries of the writing life. It’s not a bad idea to make the effort in different places, to see what happens.

So far, half an hour into this little experiment, I can tell you that my feet are warm. My belly is warm too, because the nice little computer perched on it is toasty. But unfortunately, the great stubborn block of wood that is my head has remained the same. The stories are in there, I just have to dig them out, whether here or at my desk or hanging upside down from the chandelier.

But first, another cup of coffee and a little snack.