Folks who see my novels for sale in the tasting room often ask where I find the time to write. This time of year, I don’t. It’s the vines who are busy spinning yarns. This is the time of year to simply listen to them tell me their ancient tales, whisper their secrets, and share in their story one more season.
Soon enough, they will slumber again, and the hard struggles of summer will be carved and polished into the rich-grained stain of winter. A shamir of wine, to reveal the stories of old I was told as a patient, appreciative guest.