It's beautiful here. And cold. And isolated.
Every winter I am reminded of what a great place this is to be a writer. Sometimes I chafe at the isolation. Whole days go by when I don't leave the house. When it's too cold to ski or snowshoe, I hole up inside, wrapped in my warmest sweater and fingerless gloves. But that's often when I can get good work done. Summer is frantic and short, a time to cram in as much socializing as possible. Winters are long and quiet. Good for writing.
I spent much of last winter criss-crossing the country trying to live my own life while helping care for my dying father. Didn't get much writing done. Poor Whistle Blower got drafted in the fall of 2014 and had to wait until last month for release. Right now I'm working on a new book but these things take time. I suspect that my only other 2016 releases will be rereleases as a number of my earlier stories come home, get new covers and a little polish and go right back out.
Patience is a winter skill.