It’s been raining for days, and there’s a small lake growing in the drive under the car. Now my feet are slightly damp. There’s a window, here, to the left, and it’s beaded with droplets. Outdoors, it’s green, wet, dreary. I hear the birds, but they are tucked away deep inside of the trees, no doubt whispering amongst one another about their plans for the summer. Like other melancholic personalities, I love the rain. Rainy days are productive days. I think clearly and writing comes easily. I look forward to these dreary days, shielded from the sun, because I know that the muse speaks incessantly. (Apparently, she, too, enjoys the rain.)
Annie Dillard cleverly describes the writing process:
Every morning you climb several flights of stairs, enter your study, open the French doors, and slide your desk and chair out into the middle of the air. The desk and chair float thirty feet from the ground, between the crowns of maple trees. The furniture is in place; you go back for your thermos of coffee. Then, wincing, you step out again through the French doors and sit down on the chair and look over the desktop. You can see clear to the river from here in winter. You pour yourself a cup of coffee. Birds fly under your chair. In spring, when the leaves open in the maples’ crowns, your view stops in the treetops just beyond the desk; yellow warblers hiss and whisper on the high twigs, and catch flies. Get to work. Your work is to keep cranking the flywheel that turns the gears that spin the belt in the engine of belief that keeps you and your desk in midair.
If you write: get to work. Rain is an oasis in a desert of dry, sandy, every-word-I-type-is-like-pulling-teeth sort of writing days. On rainy days you don’t have to turn the flywheel to keep the desk floating midair; it will float on its own, like a canoe on a lake.