Ann Emmert Abbott
What noise? I stop punching the keyboard. I listen.
Oh, yeah. I left the TV on again. I’m in SoCal, so the windows are still open, cooling the house before tomorrow’s Santa Ana; and there goes the neighbor, hauling out his garbage cans for tomorrow’s pickup. (I prefer to whip mine out in my housecoat and pink, fuzzy slippers, just before the truck rumbles to a halt at my carport.)
There’s traffic swishing past about 35 feet from this window. Planes fly over. And always, always the scream of sirens and blasts of the klaxons as trucks race from the fire station down the street. All this and more does not penetrate my concentration when I’m writing. Unless the washing machine gets off balance and thumps a broken beat, I am unaware of anything else happening farther away than my monitor.
Is this what they call being a writer?