Storm Rising


Rain and thunder and storms. I’ve watched them all my life. When I moved as a child to a house surrounded by the fields of local farms, I could sit up in my room at night and watch the storms raging without the city’s short horizon blocking my view. Even ‘small’ storms seemed epic without buildings and streetlamps to hide them.

Beyond the inspiration of watching them, storms at night cleared the night air. No matter how humid the day was, or how humid the next day might be, a storm meant that the night air would be clear and crisp. The scents on the air were intoxicating, and the lightning seemed to power my creative juices.

There is something for me in that is so elemental in writing; by that I mean the classical elements of fire, air, water and earth. Be it the beauty and clarity of storms, or the driving fire, or the pounding surf, or the solid ground, there is just something about it all that gives a piece of strength to me. For all that, there is also the conundrum The of my current life. Everyone has a rhythm and my rhythm is that of a night owl.

My most creative self sparks at around 1:30 in the morning. Perhaps it was all that time I spent sitting up watching the storms that did it or the low fight I fought against insomnia through-out my teen years and into my mid-twenties. It just seems to me there is a stillness at night, even in a house with a tv on, that can never happen in the day. The day always seems so loud to me. It isn’t my neighbourhood or anything else like that. Maybe it’s some kind of “noise” that the day makes, I’m not sure.

However my life circumstances don’t allow me to stay up all night as I’d like, so I end up going to bed and just drifting off to sleep as my creative mind starts to come out to play. While it makes for very interesting dreams, sometimes it frustrates my inner writer into silence during the day. The life of a writer is ever a precarious balance, like the elements of a storm coming together.

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