Like any self-respecting writer, I found myself at 9:30 on a Friday night loping out of the bookstore, trying to get to the liquor store before it closed (successfully, I might add). It’s been an intense month of writing, grinding a synopsis into a full-length script. I’m a believer in honing the synopsis again and again, but once you start committing a story to pages, just get it done. Let nothing get in your way.
And full moons are natural deadlines. Not that you can necessarily concentrate on the night of one, but to watch it grow from a crescent to a half, and then ripen, it marks off time and speaks to the writer: You get that thing done yet? And the pleasure you feel when meeting a deadline and walking in the rays is like nothing else. Lunacy is your friend. “The lunatic, the lover, and the poet are of imagination all compact….”
To my surprise and delight, some musicians were also celebrating the full moon with band practice. While passing a very nondescript building, trumpets halted me in my tracks. They were blaring from the air shaft to its basement, and I caught it just in time to hear the last few bars of a song before, endearingly, one lone friend applauded.
I think it’s klezmer, but if anyone more musical than I am – and that’s most of you – knows better, please say so.
Sterile building, ecstatic music.
More Has To Happen 
Whatever it is, I’m a fan!
I’d call it “full moon music.”