Writing… Well, what can I say? That’s what I’m attempting to do. That’s all I’m attempting to do these days. You’d think that means a lot would get done, wouldn’t you?
Mostly, it does… sixty percent of the time. The rest of the time it gets swallowed up by stress or chores. I get stressed by the things that go on in my life and this results in a loss of concentration.
That’s why I’m writing this post. I’m trying to lessen the stress.
Master Berserker has been playing his game of how loud he can play his music in his car whilst parked outside the house. Turns out that I’m apparently the only person affected by this display of disregard for nearby ears. At least, judging by my parents’ response, that must be true.
The point is: I can’t hear myself think.
And I think you’ll agree that my inner monologue is pretty crucial to being able to write fiction. I’m not commenting on real life here. I’m creating. But I can’t create if I can’t listen to that part of myself because somebody is, once again, playing his music far too loud. Ear plugs can’t even block him out.
I tried to tell my mum why it stresses me out and why somebody actually needs to take a stand with him. She didn’t really listen. The conversation went thus:
Me: I’m sick of having to listen to him all the time. I can’t write because I can’t think and I can’t tell him about it because all I get in response is abuse.
Mum: It’s you that’s getting yourself stressed. Not him.
Me: And that’s because he’s all I can hear and I can’t tell him to turn it down because he’s abusive and I’m stressed that he’s abusive to you too.
Mum: Well that’s my problem.
Me: And I get stressed that Blindy McBlindBlind won’t do anything about it either!
And that was the end of that conversation…
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