This morning opened with this light.  I kid you not.  It looked like this.  I ran up the road in my pajamas to catch it and five minutes later it was gone.  The sun slid under a cloud, and when it re-emerged an hour later, it had that cool, fall crispness to it.  No longer like honey on the trees against an unreal blue sky.

That is how the creative moment is.  You have to catch it.  I have learned that if I don’t follow the impulse in that moment, it is gone.  The readiness to go into the studio and move.  The readiness to write.  If I let myself be distracted by too many things, like checking my Mailchimp account, or looking at email (other people’s work), the impulse is like that light.  Gone, or too cool to cook with.

This morning I caught the light, but not the writing.  There actually is a reason.  Outside, the truck is chipping all the branches from my shattered trees. The noise is deafening and seeing what remains of the beautiful cherry, the pear trees and the lilac is painful to see.  I wrote about that in The Journal two weeks ago.  The Journal is my ragged memoir, unfolding in fragments, every week.

This week I am writing about The Dangerous Woman.  I hope you  will join me.  You can do that here.

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