It’s a rainy day, for once my work is in a place where I can leave it until tomorrow, and for the first time in a long while I can sit down and write. For me it comes in spurts; there are moments when I’m so deep in a story it keeps me up at night, and I toss and turn until finally I get out of bed, put on my bathrobe, open my computer, and type feverishly until the thing is out of my brain and onto the page. Other times it’s a slog, with so much re-reading and struggling to get back into the world I was creating, I’ve almost lost the pleasure of it before I type so much as a single sentence. Mostly, of course, it’s a balance of those two extremes. And for some reason, this gray sky and the dripping rain inspires my innate love of words.
Like all writers, I am a ravenous reader. Good books are like a delicious, slow-cooked stew, with each bite revealing new ways to use familiar words, or occasionally a shiny brand-new word itself. (Bad books, in contrast, are like cold Spaghetti-O’s. Nothing good in there.) Sometimes, when the description is rich and apt, or when the dialogue flows so perfectly it plays like Casablanca in my head, that’s when words become magic. As a reader, I love it, and as I writer I’ll continue to strive for it.