Senses of Summer
Late July snapshots—and writing prompts, of course.
"Saturday morning here and we're making French toast, you know, because France," my sister says at the end of a recent voice memo, talking about how her three kids are excited to watch Olympic fencing. There's distinct amusement in her voice and I smile from 7,600 miles away thinking about her making a distinctly American breakfast in Abu Dhabi while we slept.
I hear a familiar high-pitched chirp above where I'm swimming steadily, watching the water, watching the shoreline, watching for boats who don't know (or maybe don't care) Idaho has designated a 100-foot “no-wake zone” from all docks, structures, and persons in the water on public waters statewide. I look up and see one of my osprey friends coming to say a customary hello, flying low right above me so I can say hello back. I know they can see better than any human; I think after all these years of me talking to them they recognize my voice, too. My osprey friend stays for a minute, flying above me, circling, chirping, while I chatter back, smiling and treading water until it perches atop a nearby ponderosa to watch me. The sun has barely risen and on this particular morning it feels like no one else is awake for miles.
Our alarms are still going off early most mornings, with the notable difference that before concrete plans are made, before we go anywhere, in fact, we check air temp and AQI—Air Quality Index, aka the metric for measuring how much smoke and related particulates are in the air at any given time. It's been hot here [daily averages in the 90s for multiple weeks is much too hot for a valley nestled in the mountains at 5,000 feet] and it's now officially peak wildfire season. We're lucky enough where we are right now (we've weathered enough bad fire years to know it can always be worse), while also essentially being surrounded by fires in Montana, as well as fires in parts of Idaho, Eastern Oregon, and Canada—which while not an altogether uncommon reality in the West, is still always an unsettling one.
"It's loud out there right now," I say for probably the third time in a week. It's been something I've been saying to authors a lot lately, especially as we cruise toward an unprecedented election cycle. Every time I voice it, heads nod in recognition. We all see it. We all feel it. "Not just out there, though," I continue. "It's loud in our respective and collective inboxes, too. Which is why it's important not to be discouraged if you don't see the engagement or conversions you think you should right now." More head nods. Some deep breaths. A conversation about doing what we can, and accepting what's out of our control. And then I toss in a line we share across the cozy but industrious publishing house I've worked for off and on since 2016 and full-time since 2021—a sentiment I really do believe in my bones to be true: "Marketing a book is a marathon, not a sprint."
Almost a decade ago Matt and I lived in Central Washington for a handful of years, years which unfortunately coincided with some of that region's worst wildfire years on record, which means when the AQI says the level of smoke and particulates in the air is "unhealthy for sensitive groups" like it or not we're inescapably in that "sensitive group" camp. We get headaches, feel tightness in our chests, cough a lot more, and ultimately, can't be outside anywhere near the length of time we'd like to during these would-be beloved months where our mountains and alpine lakes are fully open and snow-free.
I can't stop laughing and while I'm not entirely sure what's going on, I know for a fact I'm losing this game. My niece and nephews have been teaching us Dutch Blitz—an entirely new card game to me, and one I quickly adore, even as I continue losing round after round after round. I love the vibrant colors of the cards and their folk art designs; I love the way the strategic piles on the table get messier and messier as we get louder and louder; I love how chaotic and frenetic the energy of the game is, even as I'm trying to be calm and methodical [which is a big reason why I'm losing]. My score is perpetually a negative number. I think I win one round out of the 50 we play. I'm having too much fun to care. At one point my oldest nephew clearly feels sorry for me, or maybe sorry for how good he is compared to me, that he offers to let someone else play for him.
The acres of sagebrush surrounding the entrance to our state park are soaked after a recent thunderstorm and the smell is relentless: sharp and deep and impossible to ignore. The smell immediately rockets me back to the freshness of spring while simultaneously threatening to drop me prematurely in mid-autumn. Wet sage isn't a smell I associate with summer; it hardly ever rains here in July. I catch myself reaching my hand out the open window like I might be able to absorb the freshness clinging to branches now a distinct color of green. I take a deep breath and forget everything else I was just thinking about.
DIVE RETURNS THIS OCTOBER
After a summer break of sorts, DIVE—the beloved quarterly writing group I lead over at Creative Fuel Collective—returns Monday, October 28 for the last session of 2024. It’s a welcoming and inclusive place filled with curated and organic inspiration alongside dedicated writing time for writers in all stages of their creative journey. It’s fully virtual, collaborative, and intentionally cozy [see also: don’t wait too long to sign up; essentially every cohort has sold out!], and I’d love to see you there this fall.
WRITING PROMPTS TO EXPLORE SUMMER
Create your own set of summer snapshots. Start by making a list of memorable moments from the past two months, and then write from there. Bonus prompt: Illustrate some snapshots for some additional visual inspiration.
Write about the tangible signs of summer in your area. What do they look, sound, and smell like? What’s growing in gardens and forest around you? What’s fading? Invoke as many senses as possible as you write.
Let the dog days of summer inspire you.
Write a few sentences, a few paragraphs, or an entire short story about a dog. It can be a dog you know or one entirely imagined.
Write about H E A T — whatever that means to you, however it shows up when you arrive to a blank page.
As always, I recommend sitting with each of these prompts for at least ten minutes at a time. Set a timer and try to keep writing for ten minutes without stopping or self-editing or even trying to steer yourself a certain direction. I’m a firm and longtime believer that when it comes to prompts like these, wherever you end up on the page is precisely where you’re meant to be.
RECOMMENDED READING FOR THE MONTH AHEAD
I recently finished The Scent Keeper by Erica Bauermeister and All My Rage by Sabaa Tahir, and I’d recommend both of them as memorable, beautifully written stories centered on grief, and hope.
“Edge, Atlantic, July” by Annie Finch
“The Island Within” by Richard Blanco
Do you know someone who would benefit from receiving regular writing prompts to their inbox, who might delight in reading some intentional rambles about words and water and the power in finding our respective and collective (voices +) senses of place?
I’d love it if you’d share this post and Kerrtopia with them.
Kerrtopia is a free offering, though I've turned on paid subscriptions for this newsletter if you have the means to support it now or anytime in the future. It's not necessary to pay to read, but it is of course very much appreciated. I’ll likely be adding some special content for paid subscribers down the line. Thanks for reading, and for your ongoing support. I’m grateful you’ve found me here, grateful we’re here together. You can also find me on Instagram.
I'm sitting here imagining the scent of sage brush. Thank you for the prompts Kerri 💗
Lovely to read, as always. 💕💕