Rainy Days

When it rains in New Zealand, it's like that hazy thin white cloud that hovers above the island descends rapidly gaining density. In wellington, it creates a gusty fog over the water, making the mountains in the horizon blend with the water so you can't see where the water ends and the sky begins. I've been told by many writers that New Zealand is a literary country, but I never quite understood why until that day when I woke up to a view of haze anover the dark green capital city. Its one of those days where you want to stay in bed or go to a cafe, curl up on a comfy sofa, sip some chai (or a ristretto,in my case) and read a good book. For some, this is an excuse to get away from the "real world" of work and deadlines. How lucky I am, then, that reading a goo dbook is actually part of my work. I scanned bookshelf after bookshelf, pulling out books that interested me and carried them to the cafe where I sat for hours and hours reading.

I find that the key to writing well is to read good books- to fill one's mind with true art and craftful words. Just as a Jazz musician puts on records of Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie, Bird Parker, so must a writer revert to her roots- Shakespearian sonnets, Whalt Whitman's leaves of Grass, James Joyce's Ulysses etc etc. But more than big names is the ability to identify authors that sing true to you and your personal quest: paulo Coelho, Jack Kerouac and any recommendations by dear frieds who understand me and my perspective, sometimes better than I do- these are the authors that light the spark in my mind.

And so I spend those rainy days the perfect way. Warm, dry and in the artful embrace between the pages of a very good book.