Quiet Austin sky.

Noise. Lots of it. The cute squeals of little boys have been replaced by FIFA games cranked up until the room thrums, a new PA system “for the band, honey”, weird Minecraft sounds, Foster the People on a loop, and the incessant pinging of my teenager’s phone. Guitars, a bass, and a keyboard play non-stop. And have I mentioned the rebounding WHACKS of a soccer ball against the garage door for hours on end?

The noise is problematic as I have pages due to an editor friend, tphoto-26o see if she’ll take me on as a client. In my noisy alcove I write; I re-write, and I can’t see that this will ever be finished. Non-writing friends ask how it’s going; writing friends know better. Almost, I say. I’m getting there, I say.

So, back from some well-spent time at the Writers’ League Conference, I return now to the noise in my head, and it’s louder than any soccer game or electric guitar. The experience at the conference was overwhelmingly positive: a lot of publishing, public relations and revision questphoto-27ions were answered. And my pitch session went as well as it could, considering I was a Jell-o mold in teal gladiator sandals. Send me 100 pages and a synopsis, the agent said, handing me her card.

Here I am, my mind wanting me to cook because it needs to quiet itself. It’s like any artwork I have done. I vacillate between it’s not so bad, hey – chapters 3 through 7 are good, and let’s just set fire to the whole thing. Think I’ll go make some gazpacho. And jack up the Vitamphoto-28ix to 7 so I can’t hear my own thoughts.

What do you all do when you can’t find “the quiet”?