When the weather is wet, the ground saturated, the air moldy, and life’s latest transition is taking not three months but three years, I rely on structure and scene to move me forward in the writing process. I slog through almost without thought, because story structure is embedded in my brain from years of study and practice, back during the drought, the crispy brown ten-year drought. Hours slide by as I type handwritten notes into screenwriting software. Print. Read. Make notes. Type into the file. Round and round. On and on. For a little excitement I slip over to the novel files and brainstorm a present time scene that can jump start or enliven the writing for any given chapter. Open file. Pick one. Observe image coming to mind. Write it. Creative spurt spent, draped here on the bed where I write, I sense I’m creeping on slippery, mossy rocks in drizzly rain, all day green-filtered light fading imperceptibly. It’s dark now. I can stop. Or start again. It really doesn’t matter.