It’s nice enough outside now that I can sit outside on the porch outside of the coffee house down the road from us. There’s a lilac bush in full blossom, scent carried over on the breeze. There’s the creaking of the rafters of the porch roof. There’s the rustle of leaves on the trees overhead. Sounds of a highway nearby, the thrum of a motorcycle, cars passing. The air smells clean and earthy after rain. Petrichor. Someone inside the next house is practicing at the piano, probably taking a piano lesson.
We’re just sitting here in companionable silence. Steve’s reading a paperback. I’m enjoying access to a digital library.
And do you know how some artists used to have, like, a muse? Something or someone that inspires them, fuels them up with creative energy, gives them the impulse to make something new?
When I read a good story it does that for me. When I spend time enjoying things that other people write, it helps focus the energy towards wanting to write again for myself. Like getting a letter from a friend and wanting to write back.
And there are so many good stories. It’s so good.
And anyway I like spending time with the written word. It’s lovely.