“Not being heard is no reason for silence.”
Silence, the writer’s word enemy. The writer’s best friend. Damn alcohol, it’s silence that we should be worried about, and the way it ingrains itself into the psyche, ridding voices. Henry David Thoreau isolated himself near Walden Pond over 150 years ago, and let’s just say the man was lucky. The world was more quiet then, and not as industrialized, urbanized, stocked full of noise as it is now. It was easier going into the woods then, living right at nature’s door. Now, well, the smog alone will kill you if you’r outside too long.
That doesn’t mean we can’t try.
There are still places, tiny, obscure, but there, were writers and all artists can go to find silence. Silence to fight silence. Retreats, parks, forests, oceans, islands, coves, what have you. They’re out there. And though I have no idea where any are near to me, I plan to find out and go to them.