I escaped Delhi's 100 degree heat and came to Ladakh. It’s the coldest inhabited place on earth after Siberia. Fitting as I'm reading Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s truly brilliant One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. I’m here to re-write my Mexican story, and reading his work has helped me see where I went wrong. It’s not just that I got the plot wrong (as I originally thought). It’s that the voice I told the story in is flat and distorted by short declarative sentences. I learned long ago to tell the story the way you would to someone sitting in front of you. That way the voice sounds strong, and genuine. Somehow I forgot this and now I have to re-write the whole thing. What the hell, it’s too cold to do anything else.