summer storm

I walked out of the office this evening, just as the line of clouds was moving overhead. The breeze was hot and dry, smelling of dust. The flowers and trees wavered in expectation. I love this tme of day, when the light is drifting down to the horizon. The clouds were marbled grey, white and peach in places. A few lines of lightning cut across, and one that was like a bomb flare bright and wide. As the wind shifted, there was the soft scent of water. I hope it rains tonight, and brings the temperature down. There's something wonderful about driving with the windows down, when the first cool drop of water falls on your arm in the hot air.

Today I was thinking about writing. So often people tell me I need to write a book, built on my stories and my life. I laugh and shrug. If I wrote it as a memoir, no one would believe it. Not just because of today's problems with memoirists who invent and alter their recollections. But no one would really believe it, because it is so much stranger than fiction. It will have to be a novel, so I can just give an enigmatic smile and say that I gave the main character the job I always wanted and didn't have. Everything else will be left up to interpretation.