Your Best Day

The late day parade of pumpkins from our family. Mine is the far left. My daughter's has the hearts for eyes. My picture doesn't do justice to my wife's Martha Stewart inspired bubbling cauldron scene in the middle.

They're lovely at night though the pictures are complete garbage.

It's wet and cool. My house smells of marinara. The fire is on. The foxhound is walked. Great night for a bit of writing. In fact, it is he perfect night in my world for some writing. I'm in the library now. Tea in a bit. The day job isn't intruding.

I love the cool and damp of fall. There's a breeze tonight so leaves and pine cones are falling, the latter making odd sounds in the near woods.

The evening of your best day. For me, these are my best days. Gray, damp, cool, breezy, satisfying. My uncle called them "hunters' days." I liked that. For a guy with an assortment of rubber boots, this is perfect.

I think I write well in this weather.

I'd be interested: what are your best days? What does the evening of your best day look like?  Does it resemble the long languid shots of landscape with only tiny figures as in On The Beach? Is it more of Dostoevsky's piece White Nights? Is it Frost and "Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening" or maybe the mountain retreat in Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls? I'd be tempted by "The Big Two-Hearted River," personally.

What does the evening of your best writing day resemble - that night when you can write new material? Does it matter to you? Does it matter at all to any of us?

I'm going to find out. I'm going to write now. You should too.