Outside my open window, an August monsoon is falling. Rain drops the size of dinner plates pattering down, accompanied by much crashing and flashing. August is the drama queen of weather in Colorado; the monsoons filling the lakes and reservoirs and streams.
In a discussion elsewhere, a writer I know said, "Writers don’t just build careers, they build lives. Too often, too many let
writing suck everything they’ve got and they end up with nothing left." Wise woman, wise words. This weekend, the rains of life were filling the wells and reservoirs of my writing landscape. The sights and sounds of the outdoors, a trip to church with a friend, a hike and orienteering and lots of cooking for the hungry, hungry runner in my house, a meal out at Zio’s, where I had the most luscious chicken piccata (has anyone else had it there? Wow!) and a long conversation with an orienteer from Argentina who told me wonderful stories of her adventurous life. I read a book and a magazine I kept from a coffee shop because it had a great photo on the cover. (I asked permission, lest you think I stole it!)
Next week, I have blocked out an afternoon for an artist’s date, ala Julia Cameron. I haven’t been doing enough of them. Remember artist dates? I think I want to see the movie No Reservations. Maybe buy some new music for the brewing book. Look at shoes for Italy.
Speaking of that: whatever shall I wear in Italy at the end of September?????