Funny, the story I’d just finished had been started in a class and is about a writing class. Funny that this current wave of storylines and the words to write them occur now. The housepainters next door are still playing Dean Martin, Nat King Cole and Sinatra all day long, and since my shop is right there, the music cannot help but fill my space. Tired of the same old CD’s, and when it’s come to the point of being annoying since it’s not blasting but loud enough for me to sing along, I crank up Willie and Waylon on the shop unit just enough to drown the old timers out.
But, I cannot write. Either and both are impediments to the flow of story in my mind. I cannot ask the neighbor’s workers to turn the music off; house painting is only accompanied by silence when the painters are thinkers. In the story I’d finished, the protagonist has a problem with the silence in her writing–a twist on my own experience of noise interference (I’d actually asked the professor to keep quiet). But it’s not just the sound, but the mood–I find I can often write when simultaneously watching tv. I also seem to need the inspiration and cannot drudge it up whenever I want. I am mistress to the muses, not the other way around.
But another story is swirling in my head, and I need to get it out. Unfortunately, when I go to type it up, it doesn’t come out right. I may give up and do some other work instead.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology