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Even though it’s only 58 degrees F, I ran around the house this morning and opened the windows. Open windows mean I can hear birds, leaves rustle,and the general noises of the city. It’s comforting. It’s a connection.

Never a fan of air conditioning (although I will admit that in certain parts of the world it is necessary), I have spent decades in climate controlled environments. Insulated from the world outside. Kept mildly chilled. Like a wine cellar.

All the internal distractions were human/machine generated. Interruptions by co-workers, whirring of copier machines, clicking of keyboards in use, phones ringing, people speaking loudly. But when you work alone, the solitary work of writing, where is your controlled environment?

The writer’s office is a portable venue. The hum of humanity at a coffee shop fills the void with the activity of a faux connection with people. Writing outside has a serenade of creatures in the trees, insects in the grass, the sounds of life.

Maybe the dead silence of nothing is unnerving to the creative process. That distractions actually spur the creative thought process.

I wonder what did Michelangelo’s studio sound like? Was it the sound of chipping stone that created a brilliant backdrop? Did Edison have a constant boiling beaker for a muse? Did the scratch of chalk on a blackboard enlighten Einstein?

What do I need to hear to channel a character’s dialog?

At present, I hear the chirps of a chickadee and the caws of crows. Little else. No other background noise. Will the words erupt?

Where do you do your best writing? What’s your best environment for thought creation?

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