The Wind, the Snow, and the Countdown

The wind howls across the bay tonight, rattling my old windows and bending the trees that surround my Fidalgo island home. It’s the kind of weather that shakes you to your core—not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually. I sit at my desk, with a steaming cup of coffee, my dog, Sherlock, at my feet, and I write.

Private investigator Neil Ames, my fictional companion, is pacing the cold streets of a winter-locked port city, his breath fogging the air as he pieces together the clues of another case. Snow, pristine and silent, blankets the crime scene. The words of Agatha Christie echo in my mind: “There is something about snow that makes a murder infinitely more chilling.” But this is the Pacific Northwest and the crimson splash of blood and the indelible stain of betrayal will soon be washed away by the slushing rain.

She’s right, of course. Snow is unforgiving. It erases some traces and highlights others. It hides and reveals, just like the human heart. As I guide Neil through his investigation, I find myself reflecting on my own life.

If the average life span is 80 years, I have 520 weeks left. 520 weeks to create, to write, to live a life worthy of the stories I weave for Neil. The countdown isn’t a morbid fixation—it’s a reminder, a motivator. Time is precious, and it slips through our fingers like the snow that melts too quickly in the palm of your hand.

As the wind shakes the house again, I realize I’m grateful for its insistence. It reminds me that the world moves on whether I’m ready or not. My job, as a writer and as a woman who refuses to let age dictate her story, is to push forward.

And so I write. The wind outside mirrors the storm in my mind—a whirlwind of ideas, fears, and dreams. Neil has a mystery to solve, and I have a life to live.