A play on words

In the same theme of the Sunday afternoon...

It was one of those Sunday afternoons that a writer can only hope for, a day of delicious resignation. The storm served only as a catalyst for my inner energies; I would use this manifestation of mother nature to nurture my own literary longings. The birth of a masterpiece, a child of my creative conscience; a veritable labor of love. Ah, but to construct such a formidable feat would require many acts and rituals. There is the act of finding the right subject for this liaison, the art of research and feeling out of the form, the ritual of the actual making, of taking pen to paper or fingers to keys, whichever would be your pleasure, all leading to climatic explosion of theme, plot,character and dilemma, only to be left with a smoking gun at the end; to be in bed with the knowledgeable satisfaction of a job well done! Ah, the glory of a dreary, stormy Sunday afternoon.