PART 1: Like a character in one of Farley Mowat's Novels

The icicles are dripping outside my study window, their sound not unlike a leaky tap that keeps one awake well into the wee hours of the morning. With a sigh I rouse myself from one chair only to fall into another, angered by my lack of progress with regards to the novel I was supposed to make my fortune with, I lean back to contemplate my surroundings. Maybe they are to blame for my complete loss of creative thought, perhaps it froze along with my toes the first night I spent trying to sleep with one eye open, lest a giant grizzly decide to waltz in the front door and make me his midnight snack.

The absence of electricity in my tiny cabin lends itself to an almost Gothic feel, this coupled with the dark wood walls and numerous candelabras makes me seem like a vampieress waiting to strike any lone hiker who wanders too close to her domain.
I have provided a bed and food for my share of these lost hikers even though I have only been here since January, making it a total of two, for the most part, quite lonely and very cold months out here in the middle of nowhere, eagerly awaiting my muse to come bounding through the door begging my forgiveness for having abandoned me in my time of greatest need. Sighing again I realize how much work I have ahead of me in order to make this dreary excuse for a cabin, suitable for such a one as talented as I.

My agent had flown me in here with a promise to be back exactly one year from the day and by that time I was expected to have the worlds greatest account of back wood adventure ever written. At the moment I felt like a character in one of Farley Mowat's novels, no not the smart Indian guide who sweeps in to save the day, but the bewildered white guy dropped off in the arctic where he would be able to watch the pack of wolves coming for him for two days before they finally made him their appetizer.

A creeping wind has pushed its way through the many cracks plaguing the cabin's exterior walls to dance halfheartedly with the candles' flames. I shiver and pull my North Face windbreaker tighter around the t-shirt and two sweatshirts I am already tightly swaddled in. And point out to myself that the fire is dieing and I should really go out to the wood pile before dark but I decide to ignore that voice for a few more minutes, while the candles mesmerize me with their angelic glow.