My writing has sped down icy slopes never experienced before. Has felt the pain of aching muscles bending forward low so as not to fall over backward and get buried. Oh the exhilaration of the wind as words flow out and fall into balance. Bulky boots, gloves, goggles. Can I see where am going? She gives me a push. Keep your knees bent. Don’t look back. Now go! And I go. The snow is piled white and beautiful. The air is fresh on my face. The New Zealand Southern Alps tower. Perhaps next year I’ll come back. Graduate from nursery slopes. Become a real writer. How many hours of preliminary practice? How much crouching in a scrum position? How much free writing? How much getting to my study and writing and writing? How much progression to get as far as the nursery slope of a story of the right length submitted on time?