So, one of the things about living with three young sons, a gamer husband, and a retarded, head-thumping-into-walls-boy-cat is the rarity of silence. You know, the kind in which one can actually hear her keys clacking away while she types. Or the fridge humming along. With all the noise being of the white variety.
Authoress posed a question about seasons impacting an individual's writing productivity, and like a light-bulb, my brain dinged for a second, because I realised, at that moment as I read her post, my house was silent. The eldest boys are at school, and the youngest is well into nap time. Even the Daddy-Man is off running macho-esque errands, and Fable is . . . well, he's um, indulging himself in some personal (but silent!) hygiene.
Along with the quiet, it occurred to me I'm so used to, so programmed for Amethyst-eclipsing sounds 98 per cent of my waking hours, I sort of react to silence as a wind-up clock that has lost its twist. Even while I folded laundry, I watched a television show, because . . . well, aside from it being a good show and wanting to know what happens next, I didn't know, nor did I suspect it was because my subconscious knew I needed the sound--that bit of brain distraction--to tell the rest of me it was still Time to Get Stuff Done. As soon as my laundry was folded and the show finished, I sat still for a while, kind of at a loss of what to do next. Trust me, there's always something to do next. Did I mention I live with five males? Yeah.
The silence had kind of paralyzed me. This may shed some light on why my Dionadir trilogy playlist already has about 200 songs in it, and I add more regularly. So, my thing, my productive thing, it's not so much seasonal, or time-related, but aural.
And oh, look. The Youngest just woke up and has turned on Curious George. Guess it's time to achieve today's goal of liberating The Youngest's floor from the carpet of toys oppressing it.
2 months ago
