Sometimes I write to music, and sometimes music interferes with my concentration. I've learned to go with whatever suits my mood and the scene I'm working on. Today is one of my "quiet" days--or it would be, if this pseudo-spring thaw wasn't startling me every five minutes by sending another clutch of icicles crashing to the ground. It rained last night, so the snow has a crust of ice on top, which means the falling objects are making quite a racket. I'm alone in an otherwise silent house, so every clump of ice and snow that slides off the sun-warmed roof and lands outside my office windows sounds like burglars trying to break in.
The icicles are pretty, though. Especially when the sun shines on them and they begin to sparkle and drip.
My newspaper is still lying on my front porch, where it was thrown this morning. I should go out and fetch it, but what if I bend over at exactly the wrong moment and get stabbed in the back by a foot-long spear of falling ice? What if a chunk of ice fell on my head and knocked me out? What if...?
What if. Whether by instinct or training, a writer's brain is always turning over "what if" questions. That's how novels happen. And speaking of novels, I think I'll go back to mine now.