I’ve been experiencing writer’s block lately, so I thought I’d tell you about my day through a slightly different medium. Enjoy!
It’s unusual for rain this time of year. After a beautiful Fall, November waltzes in tossing sleet and snow like a flower girl at a wedding. It’s a miserable time–no leaves on the trees, dead grass, and no snow to cover the mess.
Tonight, though. Tonight I’m taking refuge at a friend’s hundred year-old farmhouse. Rain pounds on the window and thunder rumbles through the bones of the building. You can feel the rumble through the floorboards.
Thunderstorms are one of my favorite parts of summer. I love sitting on my front steps with Dad watching the clouds roll in. When the lightning gets too frequent, we move indoors and listen.
Having a storm in November feels like a belated birthday gift.
Time for tea, a sweater, and a good movie.
Dear Rainy Day,
I’m in love with you. The thunder that presses against my windows send a shiver of pleasure down my spine. The pattering of raindrops makes me feel cozy and safe.
Yet… How am I supposed to get anything done with your constant pestering?
You inspire the desire to shirk all responsibility. I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to spend time with you, to stand in your downpour and get soaked to the skin. I want to soak you in.
I want to curl up in a sweater and leggings in a large chair and watch you transform the normally vibrant colors out the window to a mass of fuzzy grey. I want to drink tea and read poetry aloud, letting the cadence of the words rumble in time with your thunder.
Will you wait for me, Rainy Day? Will you linger until my work is done? Will you save up a whisper so, when I crawl in bed tonight, you can sing me to sleep?
All my love,
This post is inspired by an assignment for the Blogging University class Writing 101: Finding Everyday Inspiration.
For a similar post, check out my breakup letter to Virginia Woolf.
When it’s time to write, I like to be alone. Crowded locations, even trendy coffee shops, are a definite no. I used to bury myself in the basement of my university’s library. Something about being surrounded by books helped me find my words.
These days, writing usually happens in my bedroom. This summer, I got rid of the tiny desk that served me throughout childhood and upgraded to something I can actually USE. I’m sitting here now, actually. See the white chair in the photo below? Picture me there, typing away on my laptop.
My bedroom is my happy place. It’s the only place I can truly be alone. I can hear noises from other parts of the house, but they can’t reach me here. Not in my happy place.
I’m the type of person who likes to be cozy. Part of this means lots of bookshelves, warm sweaters, and patterned socks. Part of this also means surrounding myself with objects laden with memories. Almost everything in the photo of my desk has meaning. The bulletin board is covered with postcards, photos, and notes, each bearing its own story. If you were here, I could tell you each one. The wire hanging spelling my name was a gift from a co-worker during my camp counseling days. Even the tiny objects bring back memories–rubber ducks given to me by a favorite roommate, a carved elephant a friend brought back from Africa, a plaque with a Bible verse given to me when I graduated high school.
P.S. Part of today’s assignment included generating polls/contact forms to generate ideas for future posts. I opted for the contact form. If you have a topic or area you’d like to see me write about, you can find the new “Contact Me” page under my “About” heading. Or you can email me at firstname.lastname@example.org. OR you can do things the simple way and leave a comment. Cheers!