On the edge

The edge of a typhoon hit last night, and it rained. It rained and rained. Then this morning, the clouds lifted and the mountain tops played hide and seek.

And down the valley the roadside trickles became streaming waterfalls, sweeping across the road, making driving somewhat hazardous as on the other side is a sheer drop to the paddy fields thirty metres below.

But the best thing, the marvellous, the thrilling thing about the rain - or the aftermath of rain - is that I am writing - real writing, writing my novel. And it feels good.

Must be the Scottish in me, I need cool weather and rain to write.

Aa' the best.

Rain- a writer's friend

Well, it is the rainy season, and it is raining beautiful warm steady rain. Warm rain is an oxymoron for a Scott but the rain in Vietnam wants you to dance in it, bathe in it and wait for the moment when it stops then...smell, sniff, wrap yourself in the damp greenness of rain.

The rice is nearly all planted, and although a month late this year I look forward to watching it grow. It is growing as slowly as my second book. It may be a race as to which comes first - the completed manuscript or the rice harvest and the rice is fairly sprouting along. Oi Troi Oi.

OK, enough already, gotta get back to the real writing. It might stop raining and that would mean closing the computer, getting on the bike, and riding out to a paddy or twenty seven - to watch the rice grow.