The Reality of Rain

Today is my very favorite kind of day. I woke to grey skies and the kind of barometric pressure that stills the world like a breath. It wasn’t long before the distant rumbles of thunder grew louder and more insistent. I think I like stormy days because they feel like the sky has something to say; something it can’t hold in any longer. I feel the same way when I write.

So much of the average day is taken up by the habit of rote memory. I can’t be alone in feeling as if I’m running a script at times. Every action taken, every decision made, is already made for me. We operate in interlocking task loops that, once completed, afford us the luxury of time. Time with family and friends; for hobbies, entertainment, self-improvement, or rest. All are as important as they are worthwhile.

But, God, when I write…

It feels like pouring the thunder in my chest onto a page. This silly endeavor of dreaming while awake and then writing it down. The thought of sharing these words is as thrilling as it is terrifying. Some days I’m an imposter. Some days I am inevitable. Some days I cringe at my own hopeful forgings. But every day I let myself feel the joy of creating something is one spent well.

Middledeath is in its final edits. It is a story I have revisited and rewritten more times than I care to count since I was twenty years old. It is not perfect. It is not polished. However, it is necessary. My heart needed to fold itself up into the pages of a book and be known. I need to share the worlds and stories and ideas inside my head. I think for me it is the safest way to be seen without having to make eye contact.

As I get so close to finishing the edits on this story, I can’t help but hope that readers like it. Despite my self-depreciative tendencies, I can’t help dreaming that some happy few read this book and ask for more. Because if you do, that means my script changes bit by bit to allow more luxurious time to enjoy the storm.