By Tripp Nichols
This morning, I woke up, cold. I expect it will stay this way all day long. Back home in Waco, September is still hot. I’m having a hard time typing this morning as my fingers are frozen, fumbling to find the keys. I am left astonished, stupefied, bewildered that something that comes so naturally to me – the act of writing – comes to a standstill when the temperature drops a few degrees.
We are pathetic little animals, sometimes.
Good morning, world. My name is Tripp Nichols and this is my first post to the Six Letter Press blog. I’m a poetry and short fiction writer, and I am itching to make a name for myself. I’m going to have to cut this short, though, as my fingers are numb. I better turn up the heat.