Summer is just starting to wane. It's still hot, muggy, and the flowers are blooming, but the thing that always tells me the seasons, more than weather, is the light. There's a certain angle of light that tells me we're at the peak of summer, then the light changes and I know it's waning, it's passing, etc.
Odd how our senses catalog these things before the brain really processes it. It's almost instinctive, I think, this evaluation of our surrounding without conscious thought.
I think writing is like that, too. When I allow myself to drop into a book (and a character and a place), the writing is instinctive. Words flow out, scenes develop, and I don't have to consciously craft a chapter. I 'hear' dialog and I 'see' a setting. When that happens, it's almost magical. I wake up from a trance and realize I've written two chapters and wow, the book is heading in a direction I didn't anticipate.
That's fun. And it's for those times that I write -- for that feeling of 'slipping away' somewhere else. I have more fun in my own head than any TV show can provide, and I suspect other writers would say the same.
Now to go back into that place ....