Rainy days are for writing. Not that a rainy-day atmosphere sets a mood or reflects an overriding philosophy or temperament. Rainy days are meant for somewhat a slower pace, a more reflective way of thinking. Suggesting someone who only writes on rainy days is morose or lugubrious is not proper. If anything, craving the warmth of a crackling fireplace on a damp and chilly day is apt to conjure thoughts of days Bahamian. That’s ‘Bahamian’ not ‘Bohemian’ but the right rainy day might lend itself to visions of a smoke-filled coffee shop, light bongo background, iodinic coffee in demitasse cups, and strange unintelligible poetic recitations.
Sunny days are designed for work. Physical, get out in that sun, sweat a little bit work. It is difficult to see myself sitting under a beach-type umbrella, wrestling breeze-caressed yellow-pad pages into submission so I can scribble the next award-winning short-story. I’ve tried. No matter how comfortable the chair, how cool and relaxing the beverage at hand, how, um, uninteresting the bikini-parade, or how intense and urgent the plot line or humorous repartee to be recorded, it doesn’t work. Blessed with sunshine, cool breezes or not, I need to get up, grab a spade or turning-fork and match wits with weeds, thin the spring onions, squash Japanese Beetles, or prune overzealous tomato blossoms. Were I so lucky, I’d be inclined to saddle-up and ride the north grazing land to make sure the fences were all solid and the cattle contented.
My mind wants to disengage in sunshine, to let my back and hands get busy. Kind of a perversion of the grasshopper-ant fable. Maybe I listened too closely as a kid. Maybe I should re-write some of the old standard kiddie stories. Nah. Not enough violence and suspense. On the other hand, let me rethink that. (If that doesn’t rattle some literary cages, I dunno what would.)
Snowy afternoons are about the only writing time that could ace a rainy day. So long as there was pumpkin or apple pie ready to join the turkey or stewing hen in the oven, all seasoning the cozy sitting room with aromas straight from heaven. A little music barely audible – doesn’t matter if it’s Clapton, Knopfler, Mozart, Beach Boys, Brubeck, or Gershwin. (I suspect, I’ve offended some more folks, right there – what, you don’t like ZZ-Top or Guns-n-Roses?)
Today is one of those sunny days. Not on the beach, rule out bikinis. Before five in the afternoon, rule out my favorite-of-the-week elixir. My good CDs are all packed-away in readiness for a move to the country that may never come-to-be; let the stereo cool. Could turn on the radio, seek a public station and soak up come classical or jazz background. But ‘public’ stations here all run transmitters on three D-cell batteries; can’t throw a signal across the driveway let alone ten miles of city skyline. Not a good day for writing. If I go outside, I’ll end up gassing-up the mower and manicuring Fescue.
One last shot at it. Gonna pull the blinds and drop the curtains. Tune in some static from one of the public radio excuses, pretending it to be rain. Work with either the yellow pad or the word processing software. I’ll get back to you.
Nope. Not happening. I know the sun is shining. Maybe if I pull one of the cars out of the garage and wash it. Nah, that’s a bit too much bother. Okay. Glass of iced-tea, gas-up the mower, and wear myself out. Maybe when the fireflies start their shift, I’ll be inclined to verbosity. We’ll see.