Why is it, the weather always follows my writing? No matter where I am in a particular project, no matter what season a scene is set in which I am knee deep redrafting, the weather always manages to match my writing.
Today has been a misty world of total grey cloud cover, thick fog curling into the tops of the wilting Autumnal trees. And me? I’m deep in a fifth Century forest, mist weaving through the ankles of several score Saxon soldiers as they await the enemy.
It’s magic. It’s more than magic, it’s superlative serendipity and I adore it.