I started writing this book in the middle of a snowy winter. We don’t have a snow blower, and I had to hand-shovel every inch of what must have been six hundred inches of snow that winter. Much of my agony is transferred to Jim, particularly the part where he has to shovel the same snow to make room for new snow.
Unlike Jim, a pretty girl from across the alley didn’t come over to help with her dad’s snow blower.
Since then we hired a service.