Esther is a rainmaker. She keeps herself to herself. From her pert little Queenslander cottage she quietly schedules Brisbane’s storms, drizzles and showers. She’s efficient. She doesn’t fuss. Each season, the rain’s just right. Then, Esther meets Oliver. She opens her heart and her home and unwittingly shares secrets she should have held tight. The consequences are devastating.
Some callings are solitary affairs which don’t accommodate company – they’re all contemplation, calculation and craftsmanship and they lose their form in the face of noise and muddle. Writing is one of those callings; it plays its practitioner like an instrument – makes music on vessels shaped to its cause and dissipates like smoke in the face of distraction. It’s soft and silent; it carries its practitioner away to an invisible place and holds him there while, all around, life encourages him to come out, to be seen, to integrate. Always, society sits uncomfortably with the stretches of solitude good writing asks for; it knocks and scratches at the writer’s space and begs to be let in. An insistent puppy. Open the door and it’s all fun and games. Open the door and writing wisps away and every cell in the writer’s body is, when the fun’s finished, the poorer for it. No, some callings aren’t compatible with company. They must have closed doors. Behind them, miracles are made.
Where can I read it?