Day 2: How Not to Write a Book on a Sunny Day.

Last night I was walking home down a long straight stretch of road and I noticed how black the trees turn against the pale blue and orange sky. Birds flew high overhead then perched solemnly atop the highest branches. The sun was so strong and the sky so clear that it seemed impossible that night could rise against the day. Night was indeed quick and quiet. So quiet that the sun rose today with a smirk; almost with arrogance. I was weary walking to the park to exercise at eight a.m. but I decided to meet the heat head on. Rather than be a victim to the sun's rays I pushed myself to produce more perspiration than the sun could reap from me. Walking home I took in the flavour of summer mornings. I savoured the shade, the way the brown grass crunched beneath my feet, the dew that grabbed hold of my ankles and the strains of summer scents trying to thrive despite the heat washing over our summer in waves.
All of this I drank in and stored for the morning when instead of challenging the sun I might challenge something else and succeed in writing a line or two.
Beautiful weather inspires me but it also distracts me. I did not write today. I tucked the images. scents and emotions away until such time as I need to recall them for a scene in one of my chapters.