Like strokes of a pen

Mountain foliage is beckoning tourists by the gaping busloads while our seaside greenery stubbornly holds on to its dull, late summer hue. Nightfall slinks in sooner each day, even though the sun still drives us into the shade occasionally.

These transitional weeks always conjure up smells of freshly-sharpened pencils, wet forest, and pie spices for me. I start to crave the feel of my fingerless gloves and oh-so-retro leg warmers, but can’t wear them because it’s too early.

My dinner-making instinct starts kicking in by no later than five p.m. Two hours later, the trees’ black silhouette against a metallic-colored sky and the cottage windows in my neighborhood glow in a manner that would make Thomas Kinkade proud. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist including a Kinkadian cottage here. Keep your sense of humor.)

How Kinkade might see cloistered island writers

If one loves to read and to write, the lengthening darkness triggers a Pavlovian response – grab the pad of paper, snuggle up to a book, balance the laptop without spilling your tea. Many island writers are responding by diving deep into their Sudden Fiction session, led by Eleanor Morse.  Others are contemplating whether or not to participate in the annual nationwide Nanowrimo or National Novel Writing Month escapade.

Succumb to the urge. Write. Read. And, by all means, leave the light on in the window.