Ironic for a writer, to exist in that place of no-words.

There was, I think, a time when silence frightened me. Made a place for my worst thoughts to echo. Reflected something empty in myself.

Not any longer.

Now, silence is warmth. It gives the words a place to play. Silence gives me back to myself.

The lack of sound is the paper of stanzas where the music of the language will go.

One those days when my thoughts are rackety, I still do fill the silence with music. Or with my own voice, singing. Or with the rhythm and lull of a chapter read back to myself on tape. Or the voice of a friend.

But in what there is…all there needs to be. The soft click of laptop keys. The shift of a chair. The creak of the house. The request in a cat’s mew. The sound of a bird. Rain against a window. They are a soup of wonder, delicious. A vessel to be filled by the created world; by the voices of the characters. By the best of what I know to do.

Silence lets me find the me in me.

 

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