When I read I am not very critical, never was. I am the proverbial sponge. I take in. I soak. I immerse. If I can’t do that in a story, if I can put a story down without a fight, then for me, it’s not that good a story. If I have to fight myself to put down a story at midnight, make a bargain about what I will get done so I can get back to the story, then I know some part of that story will show up in my dreams. I dream all the time. I can not remember a time I did not, have not dreamed. Even when I wake up from being given an anesthetic, I feel like I dream.

It is very loud in my head. Always. I feel a little Walter Mitty. Always. So where am I going with this?  Here I am in NYC. I did not take an intensive this year. This is processing time. So I headed for the Concierge floor figuring that I would be able to find a quiet spot in a huge room and be able to write. Yes, I find my quiet corner and who sits down next to me? Two Asian women who proceed to have a telephone conversation over speaker phone about some deal with a guy in Oklahoma. My neck tightens, my head aches, for all the noise in side my head, I like, no I demand, quiet around me especially when I write. It’s that sponge thing. I go in. I soak, I immerse in the story I am writing. I cry. I laugh out loud at my own stupid jokes.

I move. I can still hear them. I am now across the room. How annoying. So this adapting just cost me ten dollars on iTunes. Georgian Chant. Too many leads with what we now call the Tridentine Mass--although when I was grown  up it was just the mass-spoken in Latin. Maybe because it is so much my childhood it relaxes me and allows me to concentrate on something other than the annoying asian women who blast on their speaker phone, the sound on the TV and the constant chatter.

So I am working on adapting. Can I write in this environment? Can I make progress on my story. LOL, only time will tell!

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