Blog 76 - Rainy Day Writing

Blog76 - Rainy Day Writing

October 2025

It's raining outside. The rain. Oh, the glorious, drumming, insistent rain. It's a proper British deluge out there. Usually, a day like this would fill me with a mild depression, there’s nothing worse than a 12hr night shift in the pouring rain. But not today. Oh no, my friends, not today, today I am off. Usually that would mean jobs galore, Gardening, shopping, and all manner of other tasks laid before me by my other half. However, today, I am cocooned in a bubble of almost sinful smugness, a halo of domestic virtue shimmering above my head. Why? Because yesterday, I earned it.
Yesterday, fuelled by a premonition of grey skies and a sudden burst of frantic energy, I single-handedly pulled the weeds mowed the lawn and wrestled the garden into submission. So, when the heavens opened and the world outside turned into a glistening, grey blur, I was able to sit here, fingers poised over the keyboard, with not a single solitary pang of guilt. And let me tell you, for a writer, that's like finding a four-leaf clover sprouting from the strap of a Rolex watch. It’s so rare, It’s practically unheard of.
I don't know about you, but in my case, guilt is a constant companion often tag-teamed with my other half. There’s the internal monologue – Shouldn’t I be doing something more productive? Is this really ‘work’? – which is bad enough. But then there’s the external chorus, you know the drill, right? "Still up there?" she'll ask, her voice perfectly innocent, but with just a hint of a question mark hanging in the air like a persistent gnat. Or, my personal favourite, a gentle reminder that "There are other things that need doing, you know!" Said with a knowing glance towards the aforementioned garden, or perhaps the shed door that seems to rip itself off its hinges every time my back is turned. And then there’s the ultimate dagger, wielded with obvious relish whenever I descend the stairs, like Tolkien's Gollum from the mountainside, for a cup of coffee (My precious!): "Are you having fun doing nothing up there?"…Doing nothing! Oh, the sting! The glorious, brain-blistering, world-building, character-developing, plot-twisting, word-wrestling, soul-baring "nothing" that writing entails. The trouble is, writing is invisible labour, it doesn't leave a trail of sawdust or a freshly painted wall. It leaves... well, hopefully, a story. However, that can take days, weeks, even years before it's finished and until then the process looks an awful lot like staring blankly at a screen, with an occasional dramatic sigh thrown in for good measure.
Yesterday's garden heroics, however, have granted me a temporary reprieve from this mental and verbal onslaught. The rain outside isn't just washing the streets clean; it's washing away my guilt. Every pitter-patter against the glass is a little tap of affirmation: "You earned this. Sit. Write. Create. No one can fault you now." And it’s in these stolen moments – moments that are truly mine – that the words truly begin to flow. It’s a liberation, a creative free pass granted by the sheer virtue of having been a responsible adult yesterday. The domestic commander has no ammunition today! The "to-do" list is, for once, gloriously blank regarding anything external. The life of a writer, especially one juggling the realities of a home and family, often feels like a series of stolen moments. Early mornings before the house stirs or late nights fuelled by lukewarm coffee in snatched hours during work lunch breaks. We become expert time-thieves, pilfering minutes from the day's demands, always with that nagging voice reminding us of what else we could (or should, if the other half is to be believed) be doing.
But today, with the grey, rain-sodden backdrop acting as a perfect excuse, this moment isn't stolen; it's gifted. It's a permission slip from the universe, signed by the weather gods and endorsed by a tidy garden. The rain-lashed world outside has become a cozy, comforting cocoon, urging me deeper into the worlds I’m trying to build on the screen. There’s a quiet beauty to it, a contemplative hush that invites meditation and creativity.
So, if you're a fellow word-weaver out there, currently battling your own internal guilt monsters or the well-meaning queries of a loved one, I implore you: seize your moments. And if, by some stroke of luck, you managed to conquer your domestic chores before the heavens opened, then lean into that smug satisfaction. Let the rain outside be your muse, your shield, and your ultimate, guilt-free excuse to simply… write. The life of a writer may be one of stolen moments with a rain sodden backdrop, but that’s okay. It’s where we thrive.
My fingers will soon be flying. A story unfolding before my eyes. And the only sound I hear, apart from the delightful drumming of rain, is the joyous hum of an unburdened writer. This is as close to Pure bliss as a writer can get… well it will be when the other half makes me a coffee!