Donald Edward Peters's Blog
September 26, 2012
Silence is NOT Golden
Ask a hundred different authors about their writing process and you’ll get a hundred different answers.
So here’s mine.
I have a friend who literally banishes the wife and kids outside and locks himself in a closet whenever he writes. The sound of his watch ticking drives him crazy. The next time I visit, it wouldn’t surprise me to see his den decked out with recording studio acoustic tiles.
Me? I can’t write that way. I need noise. A television on, or a radio blaring – anything to produce a background drone.
I suppose it has something to do with my upbringing as a journalist. Back in the old days, a news room approaching deadline could produce sounds loud enough to shake windows. Machine-gun fire typing, editors screaming at reporters, the reporters snarling back, objects getting thrown, the soft gurgles as people poured bourbon into coffee cups underneath their desks…
Visualize frat party meets prison riot. Or an Oakland Raiders home game.
Ah, the good old days.
I haven’t been in a news room for about 20 years, so I can’t vouch that it’s still the same. Given the aimless drifting the media has done over the past two decades, I would guess not. Probably like working in a bank – sterile environment, maybe a hint of Muzak. Small bottles of Petite Sirah in the fridge. Unless it’s Fox News, where you’d hear the whimpering of the daily sacrificial liberal as he’s slow-roasted over flaming copies of the Washington Post and Mother Jones.
But I digress.
Staring at a blank sheet of paper (or a computer screen – I’m not THAT technologically backward) is about as scary a thing I can think of except maybe a Matt LeBlanc movie marathon. Really, it terrifies me. Oddly enough, if there isn’t something else going on in my environment, I get distracted. My mind wanders, and instead of concentrating on my writing, I find myself internally debating the Best Hitting Pitcher During my Lifetime (Fernando Valenzuela) or the Best SI Swimsuit Cover (1989 – Kathy Ireland). I get nothing done, slam the cover of my laptop down in frustration and burn out my anger by powering through a bag of Snickers mini bars.
Frozen, of course.
So crank up the TV, set the radio volume to 11. Heck – just leave the door open to the utility room so I can hear the rhythmic thud of the washer-dryer. Give me noise. Lots of noise.
Won’t bother me a bit.
So here’s mine.
I have a friend who literally banishes the wife and kids outside and locks himself in a closet whenever he writes. The sound of his watch ticking drives him crazy. The next time I visit, it wouldn’t surprise me to see his den decked out with recording studio acoustic tiles.
Me? I can’t write that way. I need noise. A television on, or a radio blaring – anything to produce a background drone.
I suppose it has something to do with my upbringing as a journalist. Back in the old days, a news room approaching deadline could produce sounds loud enough to shake windows. Machine-gun fire typing, editors screaming at reporters, the reporters snarling back, objects getting thrown, the soft gurgles as people poured bourbon into coffee cups underneath their desks…
Visualize frat party meets prison riot. Or an Oakland Raiders home game.
Ah, the good old days.
I haven’t been in a news room for about 20 years, so I can’t vouch that it’s still the same. Given the aimless drifting the media has done over the past two decades, I would guess not. Probably like working in a bank – sterile environment, maybe a hint of Muzak. Small bottles of Petite Sirah in the fridge. Unless it’s Fox News, where you’d hear the whimpering of the daily sacrificial liberal as he’s slow-roasted over flaming copies of the Washington Post and Mother Jones.
But I digress.
Staring at a blank sheet of paper (or a computer screen – I’m not THAT technologically backward) is about as scary a thing I can think of except maybe a Matt LeBlanc movie marathon. Really, it terrifies me. Oddly enough, if there isn’t something else going on in my environment, I get distracted. My mind wanders, and instead of concentrating on my writing, I find myself internally debating the Best Hitting Pitcher During my Lifetime (Fernando Valenzuela) or the Best SI Swimsuit Cover (1989 – Kathy Ireland). I get nothing done, slam the cover of my laptop down in frustration and burn out my anger by powering through a bag of Snickers mini bars.
Frozen, of course.
So crank up the TV, set the radio volume to 11. Heck – just leave the door open to the utility room so I can hear the rhythmic thud of the washer-dryer. Give me noise. Lots of noise.
Won’t bother me a bit.
