By the time I am writing this, the skies overhead are a denim blue, the far hills have moved though their evening purple mountains majesty and are now simple a dark grey smudge at the far end of the lake.  The waters of the lake, whipped during the day by strong winds, are gradually subsiding to their nighttime glass, and a bat is dipping and skimming the air above the cove above which my porch sits.  My computer screen glows white, spilling an eerie cast over my face, making the fact that I am working all the more gloomy.

But tomorrow is the fourth of July, I'm one week into my summer vacation, and I have not written a word until now.  Oddly, I'm on a vacation (somewhat) and I am not reading anything. Well, I have a collection of Jack Kerouac's work called Good Blonde with me, but it hasn't captivated me.  I should be working on a lecture for my appearance at the Emily Dickinson Museum on July 13 or this article I'm working on about sustainable condominiums in New England, but I want to write about this.  I want to write about how the hills just across Donner Lake have gone from forest green to black and now twinkle with the lights of cars and houses.  I want to write about how, after days of smoke from nearby forest fires, the air is suddenly clear and the starts are beginning to appear like pin pricks in a paper bag held up to the light..  Our friends in the cabin to the left of me are out on their porch and talking with each other and I think the sounds of their conversation and occasional laughter is wonderful.  Across the cove from me, I can see that another family is inside and have their T.V. on and I think that is a damn shame.  There is too much loveliness in this evening.

This is what I wanted to write about tonight. Wherever you are, and whatever you are doing, I hope you find a way to express it with greater words and more aplomb than me.  Enjoy your moments.  It's what we have as writers.