There are meters of snow piled up on the side of the road. My boots aren’t warm enough, my socks aren’t warm enough, my four vintage fur coats are not warm enough. It’s a season of hope (you watch the sun stretch into the afternoon), a season of pain (you can’t sit in the sun without your knuckles cracking red), and a season of waiting (when will my hopes be fulfilled? when will my pain go away?). I stay in and listen to the heat blow in from the hallway and the wind blow in from the window and I write. I write and write and hope something hot pours out of me into a little ceramic teacup. When you write, you do the same. Once frostbite settles its fangs into your fingertips, your pen will drop and you’ll lose your strength. So write, write, write, to keep the cold away. 

Thank you to everyone who brewed us something hot this issue. I just laid out the table. Take a sip. Stay warm.

Julia Azzouz

Creative Writing Editor