Silence of Different Colors

This blog post came about last night, when I working on one of my novellas. Currently I am reading a Stephen King booked entitled Lisey's Story. The book is about a world-renowned author and his obscure, nobody cares who she is, wife. His name is Scott and her name is Lisey. King explains Scott's writing procedure as him sitting down at his desk and blasting old country music to deafening levels. This struck my curiosity, even though yes, Scott Landon is a fictional character, I wondered how I would do with the music blasting while I tried to write.

It didn't work. I kept getting distracted by the music, and even with it turned down low my mind still kept coming back to it like the tongue invariably travels to that one raw spot in your mouth. That's a line from Lisey's Story by the way. So turned off the music, partially shut my door and scooted up close to my laptop...and typed away. In a way I knew the whole blasting the music while I write thing wasn't going to work for me, but hey, what was the harm in trying? After all, I need music as a background noise for almost every thing else I do: washing dishes, volunteering at the library, waiting for the bus to come, waiting between classes, doing my Saturday cleaning...etc. Why not have music as a staple for background noise when I'm writing? But as it turns out, where with everything else I do music aids not as a distraction but as a way for me to more easily perform my tasks and make them more enjoyable...it's exactly the opposite when I sit down to write and find music playing in the background. I can even read with music in the background, sometimes prefer it that way. Ironic isn't it? How my penchant for music constantly flowing around me hasn't been able to penetrate the writing part of me.

With that said, while I was thinking of all this, I was also thinking about the different types of silence that occur in the world around us. Now, the first I could think of was the silence I prefer when I'm writing. Granted, since I write in my bedroom and don't have that blessedly secluded, sound-proofed office space I would love to have, I have to deal with the normal household noises, including those of my parents and brother. Which, I know, is something many other writer's have to deal with, and with them I sympathize. But I'll be honest, I haven't completely mastered the art of tuning everything else but the constant whirring of my thoughts onto paper out of my head. Those outside noises still creep in like invisible gas through cracks in a door. Sometimes in the summer I choose to take my laptop outside, where I'll sit on our porch attached to the garage. This too has its own benefits but downfalls as well. We live in the middle of the city, as well as in the middle of the block thus...we're in the middle of the noise! But once my fingers start moving of their own accord, channeling idea after idea onto the paper while my eyes and mind simply follow the words appearing on the screen, I commit myself only to what I see on the screen and nothing else.

So what type of silence would you call that? That silence that I yearn for when writing? I think it could be referred to as a silence you yearn for so you can pull haphazard thoughts together and form a story. It's the type of silence that allows you to reach into that far away pool within you, that pool that constantly calls to you, slowly pulling you inward until you give in and wade into it's depths. It's the type of silence that wishes the world and all its tumult would just fall away, so its only you and the paper, you and the words. Its the type of silence that come us thrive on when writing, but others dispel like King's fictional character, Scott Landon.

What about other types of silence? Because most of my writing is so inevitably tied to the American countryside, I could talk about the silence that permeates the rolling fields and the hollowed crook of the valleys. This silence is something I breathe deep within my soul and conscious mind like air every time I step out of the car and onto flattened, open earth. It's the type of silence that brings a sort of inexplicable comfort to me, a stilling of the mind, a gentle touch against the heart. It's a silence that removes me from the city's chaotic pace. It's the silence that reminds me of relatives homes and places I don't get to visit very often. It's a silence that is as strongly familiar as my own face, yet is one I rarely taste and feel. It's the silence of long abandoned homes succumbed to nature, now resting peacefully. It's the silence of horses grazing in fields, with golden sunlight highlighting their withers, tails billowing in the wind like the trailing veil of a blushing bride. It's the silence of an unhurried, uncomplicated lifestyle. It's the silence that permeates my every word in my stories, a silence that my fictional characters thrive on, and know more intimately than I do. It's a silence that I long for, and a silence I am determined to one day live amongst.

What about other types of silence? Another thought that came to me was the silence of unspoken words that pass between a husband and wife fighting, or even a boyfriend and girlfriend. I know after my parents have a fight that escalates into screaming and punching, they'll just sit in their usual chairs in the living room, saying nothing, going on with their lives as if nothing has happened, but yet just below the surface the crass words they had spat at one another, and the seething ones still writhing in their mouths, boil like hot oil from a cracked valve cover on a car. Or it doesn't even have to be a couple that fights, it can be best friends, or even a total stranger who's car you wrecked or someone who cut in front of you in line at the grocery store. Sometimes, when the arguments become intense, silence can be the best thing. Other times, like with my parents, it can only add more logs to the fire, to use a cliche. Instead of relieving the pressure of wounded pride and feelings, this type of silence only adds to it. Think of the argument as a thick, low-hanging humidity rising up in the morning and intensifying as the day goes on. Then suddenly it breaks into a huge, summer storm, leaving the earth dripping wet and breathless afterwards. The beginning of the argument is like the early humidity. All day your clothes are clinging to your skin, every time you breath you feel like the air is a physical thing, instead of merely a vapor. Then something tips you off or you feel like today's the day you're going to confront this person about something...and the storm comes. Or it could also be the way everything falls silent before a tornado comes. The sky is boiling black and blue like its been punched until it bruised, and you're holding your breath, feeling the air climb high around you, seeming to want to crush you from the outside in, the birds halt their songs, the trees stand still...and then the tornado comes. Once it's gone everything returns to normal. If you're lucky, no damage was done, but sometimes you're not. Sometimes there's aftermath to clean up. The silence that passes between two people after an argument is a silence burdened with unspoken words and with spoken ones, it's a silence that permeates like the weight of the atmosphere before a tornado. It's a silence you yearn to break, but don't dare for fear of what the skies may bring.

It wasn't my intention to end this blog post on such a sardonic note, but I ran out of time! I intended to talk about the silence of a library to close it off. Of which I know very well because for one of the best summers of my life, I worked at Sheboygan's local library. That silence is similar to that which I yearn for when writing. A silence that forms an intimate relationship between you and your thoughts, or you, your thoughts and the paper! But, perhaps that's for another time. Right now I have to go to my Creative Writing class. Speaking writing, right?