Tuscany in August
(Freewrite written in Italy over the summer)
The pool was a trial to match those of Hercules, it was that cold; ocean cold, you cannot help but think, especially if you have just completed reading Mr. Midshipman Hornblower. Perhaps not "the Mediterranean in December", but September could be argued feasibly.
The temperature of the air, of course, a baking Tuscany warmth that glows off the terra cotta tiles (strangly like home, the weather, the climate, the colors, but they didn't say Southern California was a Mediterranean climate for nothing), making you almost believe that the clay had been burned that color, even though you know better.
In front of you stands a smooth, trim orchard; olive trees, most likely. Behind, vineyards stretching for miles. It couldn’t get more Italy than this, that is the truth.
A deep breath. A swarm of ideas, characters, words, concepts, swirls in your mind (a writer's brain is never silent), but you push them away, fearing that giving into the story of an angsty American sailor, or a lovesick nineteenth century French feminist, or a smirking young man who is the quintessential "beach boy" will somehow lessen the experience you have before you. But you give in to the twitch of the pen and find a happy medium before lying down to soak in the sun.