San Antonio averages 300 days of sunshine a year. Last Friday wasn’t one of them. The white patch in the chair is ice. My patio is somewhere under the lake. The scene begs for cliché. When hail hell freezes over. When all hail hell breaks loose. Or to paraphrase Steinbeck, “I’ve lived in good climate, it bores the hail hell out of me. I like weather rather than climate.”

This isn’t the first time I’ve disagreed with Steinbeck.

I know what I want to wear. Knowing is good, but it can be a pain. The colors, the lines, the textures, the weight–these things are obvious to me. And since I can’t afford Armani, retail isn’t an option. So, last week I chose a palette, found the trusty tissue patterns, and made a supply list on an index card. Yesterday, while my girls studied Chinese, I shopped.

Sewing is both design and engineering. Altering a pattern so I’m not yanking at my waistband all day–engineering. Changing up a tank top for variety–design. I see parallels in writing. Structuring a story–engineering. Choosing the right word–design.

I write for the same reasons I sew. I know what I want to read.

This time, it was The Last Boyfriend, the second installment of The Inn Boonsboro Trilogy. A few weeks ago, it was the big stand-alone, The Witness. I read so fast; I read them twice. After all, I don’t want to miss anything.

Why all night? Why Nora Roberts? She makes me turn the page.

This plot of real estate could have been the setting for a John Wayne movie. Now, it’s in the middle the city, a hold out from a by-gone time. Dairy cattle grazed here not long ago. The original owner, a widow living alone, wouldn’t sell to the developers who tacked up cardboard apartment buildings along the main drag. The dairy went under, but the land was valuable. A bank sent out a man to corral the cows and convince the lady to sell. He was inept. She was smart. She wanted to stay in her clapboard farm-house. He failed like one of those slick visitors to Green Acres or Petticoat Junction or Mayberry. A local judge convinced her to will the farm to the city.

This is where I saw the Hepatic Tanager. He shouldn’t live here. It’s too far east, a little too far north, and usually, too humid. Chalk that up to climate change. Smaller than a cardinal, the bird sings a familiar song, a long single note.

Isn’t it great? She wouldn’t take the money.

Photo, courtesy of Creative Commons.

Her view of Microsoft’s investment in Barnes & Noble is a must read. Click over here to see it. Her book, We Are Not Alone: The Writers Guide to Social Media is available here.