After a Christmas caroling party Saturday night (with some good singing once we’d warmed up), Sunday was immensely quiet. The girls were worn out (mono fatigue), and we were all ready for a quiet day.
Even with four of us in a small house, a little TV watching and a little trombone playing, it was deeply quiet. Perhaps it was because each of us was quiet inside, or perhaps we’d sung the house to stillness the night before.
As a writer, I love silence. I love to work in solitude, without radio or music – just (I hope) a quiet mind and lots of space for the story. Even as a child, I knew I would love this aspect of being a writer.
I spoke to a friend at my favorite bookstore, and she said that while she enjoys the customers at the store, at the end of the day she’s totally ready to be silent. She envies that about writers, being able to work alone.
The work is solitary, and I suspect it would be difficult to be a writer without being comfortable with silence. I love it.