Daily Post: Singin’ in the Rain – Safe inside, toasty warm, while water pitter-patters on the roof… describe your perfect, rainy afternoon. Photographers, artists, poets: show us RAIN.
I love rainy days, for some reason, I feel invigorated by them. I can look out the window at the pouring rain, watch crooked streams of water slip down the window pane and feel lifted to imaginary realms. Rainy days turn on creative energy in my mind and I love to write with the sound of soft, steady rain, scary thunder crashes and flashes of lightening.
This morning, it was cool and cloudy, the skies were pregnant with the promise of thunderstorms, scheduled for delivery mid-afternoon. I want all of my chores completed so that I can dedicate my entire self to the upcoming stormy afternoon. I begin slicing the onions, celery, carrots and measuring herbs for the chicken and dumpling soup I have planned for dinner. It seems so right to have a good home-cooked soup on a wet, chilly day.
While the chicken slowly stews in the pot, I clean the kitchen, take my shower, sort through mail and pay a few bills. Everything is going according to plan, I even have time to sit and read my Kindle before I need to combine all the soup ingredients and let them simmer.
Four chapters into my Kindle book, my female Lab comes nervously to my lap, wagging her tale and banging any furnishings in its way. She knows the storms are beginning, she hears them in the distance. I pet her, hug her, reassure her and go to the window where I see the skies are indeed darkened. A few scattered raindrops spit onto our front sidewalk and driveway.
CRACK! BANG! BOOM! The storm is here. Lightening threatens treetops while water bursts from clouds in heavy sheets blown crazily by northern winds. I smile, make a cup of green tea sprinkled with cinnamon powder and walk to my computer where the only light in the room is its screen. For even more ambiance, I light a scented candle and place it safely within a frosted-glass candle holder upon my desk.
My “Eerie Writing” music-list is engaged and Rachmoninoff begins to fill the air with classic vibrations. Now, I am ready. I open my old manuscript file, my Great-American-Novel, you know, the one that everyone who loves to write is writing.
I sit back and re-read the last three pages I wrote. How long ago was that? Weeks? Months? Years? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that today, this stormy afternoon, I am not a cook, I am not a housekeeper or wife, I am a writer and I will write.