Writing the rain

The body doesn't object to mild weather, but the naturalist's mind worries. The other day, in exploring the meaning of ABBA's song, "Fernando," I wikied the Rio Grande. Environmentalists believe, the entry said, that if dry climate continues, the river will cease to exist.

This very minute, Barbara Campbell emailed me the prompt for tomorrow's 1001 Nights Cast. I'm scheduled to write the 208^th story, to be read at sundown on Saturday in Sydney, translating to 4:09 a.m. EST

My sleep cycle is wrecked. This morning I was up until 4, so I watched Barbara's webcast, first time since she left Paris. Maybe I'll do the same tonight, and worry about routines tomorrow.

I have a pot of vegetable soup simmering, based on a recipe chrisglass posted in 2003. Its aroma is already filling the apartment. I uncorked a bottle of Colio Cabernet/Merlot from Harrow, my hometown. I'm looking forward to an evening of writing the tale now taking form in my head. It's the kind of night when I could luxuriate in cuddling by the hearth and getting socked in by a good old-fashioned Ontario blizzard. But I'll have to settle for rain, while the Rio Grande goes without.

Aftermath

Writing is an adventure. The problem is, if you're willing to lose control and let the characters tell their story, it takes on a life of it's own and you can't be sure where it will lead. Tonight I had in mind to write a warm tale of gentle flirtation, but what emerged tore me to pieces more than anything I've written before, even more than Trent's crisis in Pilgrim's Cross.

I have some qualms, not because of the content, but because I usually write linear narratives and this was an extreme departure. I can't guarantee Barbara will choose to read it tonight. Regardless, I'll post it here tomorrow behind a cut. I'll be interested to hear any comments.

Perhaps a long shower is in order.