Am I weird?

So it’s grey, and cold, and dark and miserable? So why is that I find myself inspired with creativity? I’m fired with so many images and ideas for my novel it’s untrue. Am I so very weird for loving this weather? I just want to delve into my story and write about Eleanor, Ben and Hanna Katla meeting with the alfar and the þurs, and of crouching by pools amongst the long grass and watching the reflection of another world in the surface of water, and diving through into them, and running through the hills with the rain on your face, and soaking through to your skin…