I Like the Sound That Rain Makes


I like the sound that rain makes. A steady stream against the leaves, and the hiss of cars on wet pavement puts me in a special kind of mood. And, for some reason, it's a mood that makes me want to write.

Erin calls it "Byronesque", but for that, I visualize rolling grey clouds over a rocky, grassy landscape. No rain. Lot's of wind, though. And I should be in an aryn-wool sweater. Byronesque does not mean smelling like sheep after being drenched to the skin in a downpour.

...well, maybe...

My favourite personal fanfic has had "Byronesque" openings. In The Abbey by the Sea and in The Sea of Doubt, I started the story on a rocky beach in the face of an approaching storm. It's moody and grim, and it just seems to feed my appetite to write. The heat takes too much strength out of you, and when the sky is blue, description becomes too pat. "The sky was blue." "With little fluffy clouds" "That float around like sheep" "Baa, baa, baa."

Anyway. It's raining. And I want to drive in it. I'd like to take transit on it. I want to park myself in a coffee shop and keep an eye on the world that rushes past, desperate not to be wet. Maybe there's a little bit of sadism involved (they're wet and I'm not), or maybe you see more of who people really are when they are less than comfortable, when the focus of their being is set on driving forward in wind, blinking the rain out of their face. The world hunches forward, goes dynamic. It hisses at you. It breathes. And I lean forward and I write.

I want to drive in the rain. I want to have a coffee and see the world get wet.

Perhaps I will...

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