3 Surprising Ways Rains Helped Me Write Better

They were the perfect companion

Last evening, rains came to my writing aid.

I had been privy to the magic of rains since childhood. As summers would draw to a close, I ached for looming clouds on the horizon. Waking up to grey skies was a special delight. A pleasure I savored a little early this year thanks to cyclonic disruptions.

As I sat against the window typing away an article, I noticed the weather behave differently. Dark, grey clouds smothered clear blue skies. Winds rushed from all directions to join the act. Much to my delight, it started pouring soon.

In this brief euphoric moment, I discovered three ways rains were helping me write better.

1. They Drowned the Distracting Noises

A thousand tiny droplets drummed over the tin roof of my house. They orchestrated to the wind. Swaying to the rhythm of its baton.

Thunder dribbled in quick, spasmodic drum beats. It intensified the act for a moment. Then, it faded away. I could no longer hear my neighbor blaring distracting music on his speakers. Or the crowd and the traffic under my window. The rain had silenced all futile ruminations. It helped me to concentrate on the 15.6 inches of white canvass on which beautiful black letters were now taking shape.

2. They Bestowed Natural Therapy

The cool, calm atmosphere is an effective natural therapist. As I stood stupefied under the its spell, its underlings catered to my senses. The aroma of soil drenched in rainwater profused the air, filling me up with an indiscernible delight. Mist pulled me in its snug arms, cradling my insecurities away. Wind pixies encircled my head. They fished out their tools and oiled the rusty parts. Scrubbing my senses clean. Washing away the muck of a writer’s block. Then, they softly tousled my hair and flew away in search of another writer waiting to be serviced somewhere.

3. They Filled me Up With Ideas

I watched the world under a rainy spell and ached to pay the spectacle a tribute.

To write about the different ways in which the trees trembled to the winds. The cadamba flailing its long, salacious arms. The lanky Asopalav drawing its leaves close. Erect in attention, it stood wary of a scolding from the schoolmaster lest it moves. A few smaller plants drooped, wilting to the will of the ferocious winds.

Water collected in potholes reveled in the symphony. Bottlegreen frogs appeared, eager to leap at the cricket, the grasshopper, and the white ants. Menial insects that would soon surface to taste brief moments of freedom before the food chain consumed them. Brown and orange leaves came out on the streets, parading in the flowing water coursing its way to the drainage hole. A lone pigeon sought shelters in a small crack on my wall, enjoying the serendipitous turn of events that has resulted in our odd company. The sky flashed occasional streaks of light, supervising the sudden depression in weather that had enveloped the valley. The rain and the wind carried on their duties in an unprotesting silence.

The downpour drew curtains on a pallet of colors inspiring writers to conjure up the best of their ideas. To paint a vivid picture of still objects silently wait for their turn to be immortalized in a writer’s work through their words.

An evening of rains washed away the anxiety of 3 months of lockdown. And helped me finish a long-pending article. I could feel my senses clearing up, creative juices rushing through them.

Whoever called rains annoying has never been a writer.

Follow me on Medium for more of my writings.