Summer Nights with May Sarton

Good morning.

Summer is the perfect season for writing.

There’s something romantic and nostalgic about sitting out the heat, like Hemingway in Key West, and typing away with the shades drawn at midday.

Or taking out pen and paper to write to friends, acquaintances, heroes, and past loves on my old wooden desk after sunset. Samwise sleeps next to me and Emily in the cave of the under-desk. The windows are finally open, the air conditioner off, and the large fan pointing out the kitchen window draws the night air through our home. In the writing room, the rush of scents is sultry and sensual. Cool and delicious and as sweet as ripe berries.

The heat of the day, when everything is beaten down by the sun, is gone. Crickets and owls play music for those who will listen. Constellations swirl above us in a slow dance.

It’s all so delicious.

And yet, as if by agreement, in a couple of days, at the close of July, the temperatures will cool significantly. August feels like an old friend coming to…