A few inches of snow fell during the night and with temperatures due to remain unseasonably below freezing, the unpleasant white stuff isn't going anywhere soon. We've left behind the world of autumn. Now begins the four month trek through winter.

Behind us also, jarringly, is the world of late Victorian London. I realized today I missed the streets and courtyards around Whitechapel Road, the places I've been spending so many hours writing about nearly every day since the end of July. It was cold there too -- the brutal winter of 1895 -- but I never felt a chilly draught from my monitor no matter how many times I typed "ice."

I don't like to sentimentalize or sensationalize the writing process. Writing is mostly technique. Characters don't create themselves, even if it might sometimes feel that way. Still, with the novel finished and unsold I can't help wondering if we will have reason to visit our invented friends again.

Probably the best solution to these dislocations would be to start another novel immediately, one set in a tropical climate or, at least, during a heat wave.