In about a week we're all going to be thinking, Oh my God, the summer is half over. How did that happen? July 4th rolls around, and it feels like summer just blasted out of the revolver (especially in the Pacific Northwest where it's rainy and cold until July 5th), and then suddenly you're watering the lawn every day, rubbing aloe into your pinked skin, and watching leaves curl and bronze. Jesus, it's so depressing.
And yet writing, let's face it, is harder this season than in the cooler wetter months that bookend it. Distractions abound. Kids frolic merrily about with their non-stop needs. And they stay up until two, which is unsettling, because, who knows what they're up to? (The hint that Carson is misbehaving is when he unfriends me on Facebook. Carson. Who is 12, and therefore not legally even ALLOWED to have a Facebook. I am a bad, negligent mom).
But here's the thing. Summer may not be shit for production, but it's wonderful for gathering. The sensual nature of rolling around in the grass. The long days observing human behavior at places like community pools, zoos, parks. The kink leaves my back. Music pours out all the cars and the neighbors' windows. And don't even get me started on the parties.
So. It's mid-July. The blueberries in my backyard are five minutes from ripening. I hear my son and my husband playing ping-pong out back, and earlier today that same son, the one with the illegal Facebook, taught me how to do this thing with sticks (see below). Writing can wait. Right?