It is a gray day. The skies have opened up and the rain is falling. As a fellow writer tweeted this morning, it’s a great day for writing. I concur.
It is also a day to begin again. The novella I have been working on for months — a tweak here, a tweak there — is done, and I’m preparing now to mail it off. With this project behind me, I’m getting down to work on a few old projects — fine tuning short stories that I’ve let rest, writing daily on a new novel to just sketch out an outline.
This morning I’m writing at my kitchen table with a view of the backyard, the trees almost completely in bloom. It seems a bit early for that, but it’s a sign of new growth … rebirth. Raindrops drip off the leaves, the earth is wet, soaking up the nourishment. Just for today I, too, will soak up the rain and write, nourish my artist self.
It is a very good day to write, and I will get down to work, let myself blossom when I am planted.
It is also a day to begin again. The novella I have been working on for months — a tweak here, a tweak there — is done, and I’m preparing now to mail it off. With this project behind me, I’m getting down to work on a few old projects — fine tuning short stories that I’ve let rest, writing daily on a new novel to just sketch out an outline.
This morning I’m writing at my kitchen table with a view of the backyard, the trees almost completely in bloom. It seems a bit early for that, but it’s a sign of new growth … rebirth. Raindrops drip off the leaves, the earth is wet, soaking up the nourishment. Just for today I, too, will soak up the rain and write, nourish my artist self.
It is a very good day to write, and I will get down to work, let myself blossom when I am planted.
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