Slanting rays

I was having lunch a bit ago up on Broadway. I was sitting at the window table, in the sun, thinking, "It's a gorgeous day in Portland. What's making me feel so sad?"

Apart from the passing of the last Kennedy (a poignant thing to someone whose earliest memories have to do with the passing of the first one), I think it's the same thing that makes it a gorgeous day in Portland: the slant of the light.

It comes in low and yellow, and it makes rich, dark shadows. The sycamores are still covered with leaves, so there's a wonderful dappling effect. It feels like Back to School, and plaid shirts, and though the air isn't chilly, it was last night and it will be again tonight.

In my mind, I'm always happy to see summer go. But my body chemistry seems to have a different idea this year.

First thought, best thought?

I just spent an hour putting a scene back in. It was a scene I spent the better part of last weekend writing, and the better part of Monday and Tuesday's writing sessions cutting out.

But you know what? I think I was right the first time. "First thought, best thought" is not a rule I'm a slave to, but a very high proportion of the time, "first thought" contains at least the seeds of the best thought, and only needs a little tweaking to work right.

The scene in question had too much exposition in it. It worried too much about logistical problems that had no bearing on the story. I needed something there, to bridge a plot gap and plug a hole, but NOTE TO SELF: it didn't all need to be explained.

Over and over again I find that I write better when I know all the details, but then leave most of them out.