Rainy Day Happiness:

What could be finer than a dreary, gray, overcast, rainy day?  No need for sluices of water from the gutters, thunder or other inclement theatrics, just a steady, all day drizzle to get the writerly juices percolating. 

I imagine myself in a garret (don’t you just love the ‘garret’ concept?) in London.  No, Stockholm.  Wait, San Francisco.  Yeah, that’s the ticket; San Francisco.  No, better in London.  I don’t think San Francisco has garrets.  Anyhow, I am this starving as-yet-undiscovered writer/artist toiling passionately at my craft in the fourth floor walkup under the eaves with fingerless knitted gloves, bundled in a torn but cozy sweater – a cardigan – against the gloom and chill that presses upon the pane.  The last crust of last night’s pizza is ignored as I press on, the scenes and dialog frantically transferring from hand to keyboard.  (Yes, even Dickens would have appreciated a keyboard and besides, India ink and pen nubs are hard to find, even at Office Depot).  The starving artist is inured to all discomfort.  Only the images are alive.  The transfer from mind to paper is invisible in the fevered gush.  Oh, happiness!

Oh, yes.  I must remember to push Alt-S before logging off.  Such an intrusion of modernity…