I love to write by an open window. At night, I hear the sounds of crickets, watch fireflies, stare at the moon. It inspires me. But also, I am a smoker so maybe it’s just an attempt to breathe.
During the day I love to stare out at the cars as they pass. There are untapped stories in every car, every semi, every motorcycle. I even have the added delight of train tracks with old fashioned trains that blare out several times a day.
I adore staring out at my flowers as I try to spin my tales. They talk to me, maybe wanting a little water or some days just bouncing happily in the breeze.
I also like the way my neighbor parks his red Corvette on the grass right beside of his white gazebo. The contrasts of red, white, and green are fabulous on most days.
What I do -NOT- enjoy is getting wrapped up in some story and forgetting to place an oscillating fan within reach for a bit of help as the times change from “comfortable” to “sweltering”.
I was rolling along quite nicely today. In the groove. You know the one…where the words flow, and you’re basically on another plane of consciousness. I was pulled back to our world with sweat rolling, and panting with distress. It was too late for the fan. It was too late to find that writer’s sweet spot in which we all desire to reside.
I broke away with an almost heartbroken unhappiness laced with ire. Shutting my windows against the brain melting barrage, all that I could logically do was turn on the air (there went my power bill) and seek shelter in a cold bath. I am cooler now, but pouting and irritated. I wonder if my muse will show back up today or if I’ll have to lure her back tomorrow with coffee, promises of pastries, and open windows.