Never open with the weather, he thought with raindrops beating against the glass pane behind him. The cool, autumn air dashed in through the slightly opened window. He wanted the cold. It was his sadistic muse, chilling his extremities to the point of numbness. His fingers hovered steadily above the keys, hoping for the inspiration that would lead to their movement, to their warmth. Writing wasn’t always this difficult. Clovis Galt was once a prolific writer….not to be confused with successful. As a younger man,….