Never Begin by Writing About the Weather

So many rules to follow, each one a stop sign...

“Never start with the weather,” says every other author in any random writing guide.

It was a dark and stormy night. It was a clear and cloudless dawn. So many rules to follow, and each one says, “Stop what you are about to do, and pay attention to this rule.”

So you do, and nothing further comes forth as you search for truth, lantern in hand. Like Diogenes the Cynic you gaze at the soft warm bed clothes that beckon with just a bit more sleep. There’s comfort between the sheets, you think.

But you have yet to write the great American novel, and fresh-brewed coffee steams from that familiar cup upon the desk. Take a sip and hope for its better angels to stifle your gaping, yawning jawbone. Caffeine crosses swords with sleep. There must be a poem in here somewhere, you think.

Like hunger, the sleepish yawns will pass if you can hang on and keep putting down one word after another. Plod on ancient child, your dreams are done, your battles won. Bruised and bloodied you are one of the few who remain standing after the war. Dead bodies, some yet to topple, but your ears hear another calling, another vision to be made manifest on solid ground.

Grip it with a black cat’s claw. You used to mark time. When did you begin, and when did you end each session? Measuring your commitment in incremental grains, comparing the days, the weeks, the years, watching yourself become authentic by collecting evidential evidence.

“See? I do,” you say. “I have proof, words on the page.”

“You are a fool,” says the invisible judge that dwells between your ears.

“Nothing can stop me,” you reply. “Nothing but the rain.”

“And never begin by talking about the weather,” says the judge.