Thunderclouds of inspiration

Or “I came this close to writing a post about how George R.R. Martin may be writing eight books for A Song of Ice and Fire, but didn’t and you should all be remarkably thankful”.

When I was a child, thunderstorms scared the hell out of me. Not the lightning, nor the rain, but the thunder. In hindsight, after a tornado wrought havoc on much of my one childhood home (taking moving and such into consideration here), I may have been onto something.

As I sit here now, laptop positioned atop my crossed legs despite the discomfort such a combination makes for in this humidity, I can’t help but appreciate storms. What I’ve found, however, is the one thing I really love more than thunderstorms themselves is the last few minutes of anticipation before the storm strikes. Until the rain pours down, when it’s only the lights-and-sounds show made up of the approaching thunder and lightning, it’s nothing but a tremendous, sometimes terrifying, collection of potential. The potential for tremendous destruction and awe-inspiring force, as well as the potential for rejuvenation in cases where the rain is much-needed (California, I’d love to send some of this your way; I grow weary of the dreariness, certainly, but I don’t mind the all-natural light-show).

I’ve come to realize, in a perhaps cheesy-sounding way, thunderstorms and developing ideas for my writing hold a lot of similarities. From the moment inspiration first strikes, to the inevitable rolling, rumbling gathering of ideas, until suddenly it’s over. The storm subsides, having drifted elsewhere, and the first draft is safely tucked away in a Word document or in a notebook.

Yikes. That got a little hokey, didn’t it?

Beyond inspiration, I’ll always have memories of my grandmother, who liked to snack on potato chips while she would watch storms from the front porch of her house. She’s largely responsible for my getting over my fear of thunderstorms. She told me how the thunder was really angels bowling, and the really loud thunder-claps were when said angels got a strike. I imagine, going with the rather cheesy approach this post has taken (blaming the post, not myself, for this), that comforting little white lie may just inspire some short stories down the road. I’ve only got a backlog about a forest’s worth of paper long.

That’s for another time, though. For now, my attention will be devoted to watching Meowiarty look confused by the wind being just gusty enough to spit a little rain in through the screen door.

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