In the event of an apocalypse, the silence would frighten me the most. Think about all the noise in our lives from television, the internet, text messages, Twitter, Facebook, advertisements, our families and friends...
If I was fortunate to survive the cataclysmic event, the silence would be maddening.
I've been relatively silent lately. I'd love to say it was because of all the writing I'm doing. Not so. I'm struggling to stay afloat with baby Elliot, Max's health concerns, making sure Owen knows we still love him even though the other brothers are sapping 95% of our energy. My wife goes back to work tomorrow, and that's added a little stress, too.
I need to write now more than ever. It's my therapy and my drug and my salvation.
I need to write, but just when I need it, the time doesn't exist. I've scratched out maybe 20K words this year so far. Maybe. I've only edited an submitted one short story. I have novel ideas which threaten to die in their infancy if I can't find a release valve.
And the silence is killing me. (And by "killing" I mean figuratively.)