I like a good rainy day, especially in the summer when it means being able to stay in bed listening to it hitting the window, staying in my pjs, and curling up with a good book.
Rainy weeks, however, grate on my nerves. I am an admitted UV addict. I need light, sun, and warm air that can’t be cut with a knife. I need to run, bike, or at least leave the house. That soothing pattering of drops on the window is starting to sound like Chinese water torture. Between what the humidity has done to my hair and what the lack of sun has done to my mind, I’m starting to resemble Jack Nicholson’s character from The Shining.
Okay, so when it’s not driving me to the verge of insanity, the rain can be just what the (writing) doctor ordered. Watching the rain in a semi-catatonic state makes me thoughtful. When I get thoughtful, I can get deep and dramatic. Deep and dramatic people write poetry; just read any teenage girls’ diary. Writing poems—even short, sappy, and totally untalented pieces—reminds me why I first fell in love with writing (as a deep and dramatic teenage girl). It’s definitely not the promoting, the editing the same piece for the hundredth time, or being stuck at a part of your story that you just can’t seem to write your way out of. It’s the magic of describing something that seems indescribable, of capturing for eternity something so fleeting. It’s the power and wonder of words.
Too deep and dramatic? Perhaps, but it’s true, for me, at least for as long as I’m sitting here watching the rain fall down.
So I’m swallowing the bitter rain pill, knowing that it is the perfect prescription for my recent writing dry spell. Novels can be long and lonely places, which is likely why I’ve yet to jump back into writing them recently. Poems, the way I write them anyway, are short bursts of creativity. I spew onto the page, and then I’m done. I don’t worry about pacing, plot inconsistencies, or later edits. I don’t worry about anything but the words. Words, carefully chosen or even just spewed, are writing at its most raw form. And they’re a good place to start—a poem, a short story, or even those long and pesky novels.
And since you’re probably curious by now what brought on this blog topic, I’ll share my muse. Watching fireflies in the rain last night, I couldn’t not write about them. The poem I produced is nothing too special, but the fact it’s given me back the writing bug (pun intended), makes it worth sharing.
Calling to one another, searching, seeking.
Beacons in the dark, beautiful, fleeting.
Capture their glow, it dims, it dies,
unable to survive greedy eyes.
Strain to see it in a certain spot,
it’s bound to be where you’re looking not.
Embrace the stillness of the gloom,
black and silent as a tomb.
Forget the light for which you yearn,
and through the void it will burn.
Flashes of bright.
Light finding light.
Love taking flight.
So go ahead, Mother Nature, rain on. I’ve pen in hand (and Prozac close by), ready for whatever writing pours out.