Torturing Tranquility Like a Treasonous Prisoner

 

I admit it, I can be a pretty loud guy.  

Although one of my favorite quotes has always been Teddy Roosevelt’s, “Speak softly, and carry a big stick,” I’ve often governed myself more along the lines of:

“Yell a lot and make sure there’s a bazooka in your backpack.”

I try, but sometimes I can’t help it; it’s the way I was raised. It’s like spending a lifetime trying to drop an accent, only to have it roll carelessly from your tongue as soon as you’re too exhausted to notice. 

My mom does not believe in quiet.  She comes over for dinner once a week, and as soon as she starts talking, the sound from her mouth is like someone strapped a bullhorn to the end of her chin.  Worse than the volume is the mirror I’m looking in.  

The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree. (Love you, Mom)  

Daisy’s the opposite.  Her dream vacation, as she said just last week, would be a few days on a Tibetan mountain top where no one would speak to her until she granted permission in writing.  

As long as I’ve known her, her need for at least a little quiet falls somewhere neatly between food and water.  

When we first moved in together, I’d come home from work, barging into a perfectly silent house, jumping up and down like a puppy dog that needed to be pet.  She would look up at me, cross legged on the floor, and whisper, “Don’t you ever need any downtime.”  I’d say, “You are my downtime, Baby!” (Yes, that is an actual quote.)  

A decade later, things have definitely changed.  Of the countless gifts she’s given me, her absolute love of silence is one of my favorites. 

I’ve never loved the quiet more. 

The problem is, quiet is like anything else.  You taste it, you like it.  You like it, you want it.  You want it, you can’t have it -

YOU GET EDGY. 

Last year, when I first started writing, my fingers could keep dancing across the keyboard no matter what was happening around me.  Max would be playing with his race cars (alongside the torrent of requisite sound effects), while Mia was engaged in a series of twirls and pirouettes expertly crafted to capture my attention, all adding to the crashing symphony from itunes still running in another room.

No problem. 

Now, when I’m trying to write and there’s a plastic bag outside that’s fallen in step with the breeze, I feel like sticking my head out the window and shaking my fist.  Of course, I’m exaggerating.  

A little.  

But there’s no escaping the fact that I’ve become dependent on having some quiet at some point in my day.  I need, and now demand, at least twenty minutes for each one of the Earth’s rotations.  That’s fair, and it’s the only thing that helps me go from this:

 

 

To this:

Perhaps if I could bump that up to a couple hours, I could pop out a novel or two.

Writer Dad

 

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Have a great weekend.

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Tagged as: downtime, quiet, silence, solitude, Writing