Heat

Heat is an aphrodisiac for the muse. Heat of summer. Heat of fevers. The connection between illness and creativity has been well documented. Temperature less so. Suffice to say that the writers I know have circulation problems from sitting too long. They consume copious amounts of tea or coffee, wear woolly socks, and possess boot-like slippers for warmth. That's me all year. Not any more.

Summer has come to Poland.

The beach is a tram ride or half hour walk away. In this I feel blessed as I have been nearly all my life. Born in a seacoast town near Boston, the first air I breathed was seasoned with sea salt. Sharp, acrid almost, New England air smarts the visitor who can recoil. It's the same with Logan Airport's low flying planes whose landing gear drops like a birth as you watch and makes you want to look and duck at the same time. Miraculous as flight, the urge to write makes me tremulous and happy as a new parent.

I am writing my next book.

That kid in American Girl: Memories That Made Me is going to fall in love.