If you consistently react enthusiastically to bad weather, people begin to decide that it is somehow your fault. Particularly people with cars.
I’m somewhat less than halfway through The Sharing Knife, by Lois McMaster Bujold. And, goddamnit, Lois McMaster Bujold! How could you write something this stupid!? Are you or are you not the person who wrote A Civil Campaign? Rotate your left hand for me. Did you hurt yourself somewhere? Do you want us to call 911?
It’s kind of a romance novel, with necromancy. Really pallid necromancy. And a really pallid pseudo-medieval setting. And long explanations of the workings of the magical systems and history of said pallid pseudo-medieval setting. And long, pallid conversations between the hero and heroine, who are going to fall in love and save the world (the two being presumably mutually dependent), in which everything they say is an irritating metaphor. And all the minor characters are awkwardly symbolic to the point that they should have names like Sir Xenophobius and Lady Glory-Of-Sisterhood, and despite all the awkward chunks of exposition I still am not sure, you know, what the “Farmers” are farming, and what sort of government any of these places we keep comparing in value-laden terms has, or even what the weather’s like.
I am feeling very betrayed right now. I think I’m going to have to stop reading this.