Benjamin's Blog

Any time is a good time for writing, but there is something about writing in fall that just feels right. Maybe it’s the attire, the sweaters over shirts and the use of more comfortable fabrics. It might be that hot beverages become increasingly acceptable throughout the day and nothing is more inspiring for me than staring out at a pile of fallen leaves while holding a mug of coffee or tea or hot cider.

It’s sickeningly New England, I suppose. Hemingway didn’t need fall when he was on safari in Africa. But Mark Twain moved to Connecticut for a reason, I suppose. And I sincerely doubt it was the blizzards. Whatever their muses were, I’m a New England man, born and raised, and I love the fall. I’ve been without it and I’ve missed it fiercely. Now that I’m here for it again, it feels like a perfect time to be writing.

(photo by agirlthrivesinbrighton)

A room lined with mahogany, smelling of cigar smoke. A glass of cognac in my hand. The shelves are lined with leather-bound books, even older than the men in their dusty tuxedos that mill about the room. One living fossil with yellow-tinged hair and jaundiced fingers jaws at me about Federal funding for exploratory drilling in Madagascar or Massachusetts or on Mars. I’m not really listening. The duck liver from an hour ago sits like a stone in my gut, but maybe that’s just nerves. 

I’m nervous a lot lately.