what do you write with?

Answer fast. What do you write with? There are no wrong answers, so just answer. Now record your answer. Did you come up with “computer,” or “pen” or “pencil?” Or maybe you said “imagination” (if so, give yourself extra points). Or perhaps you answered “fear and loathing” (in that case, you win the Hunter Thompson award).

All right, here’s a second chance. What do you write with? This time make it a list of what you write with. Yes, you can include the “fear and loathing” answer if it’s true. When you’ve finished your list, come back and let’s compare notes.

While I was waiting for you, I proofed my first two paragraphs and got thoroughly hung up on the spelling of the word “answer.” There’s a “w” in there, a letter that made me suddenly uncomfortable. Typical of our crazy English language, with a silent letter that had me running to the Oxford English Dictionary (the “shorter” version, which is two huge volumes). That silent “w,” found in the Old English and Old Norse words, has survived to this day, God bless it, like a diligent little fossil that keeps showing up every day for work but nobody has the heart to retire it to a museum.

The silent “w” in “answer” has a more famous cousin, of course, in the Middle English word “often.” That silent “t” is silent, isn’t it, although I often hear it pronounced, and the dictionaries include the non-silent version as an alternative pronunciation. Let’s just pray that the silent “w” in “answer” doesn’t suddenly decide to imitate its cousin and come out of that quiet closet!

But I digress. Let’s compare lists. On your list did you include the ear? It’s on my list, near the top. I write with a computer keyboard and screen (tactile and visual); with varying degrees of imagination (the mind’s eye); with fear and loathing (fear of having nothing to say, and loathing the muses for going on frequent long vacations); and with the ear.

I always speak of my writing room as a quiet place to write, but it’s not. Right now there’s music in the room. Diana Krall is singing a sultry “Besame Mucho,” and my parrot Tobi is talking away, saying “did you miss me?” and “give us a kiss.” Wild birds singing outside, although not in English. Wind in the trees outside my window. With all this inspiration I should probably be writing a romantic story or poem, instead of writing about silent letters.

Other sounds in the room? The tapping of the keys as I write, and when I’m waiting for the next thought I tap lightly at the keys without pressing down, like a batter taking practice swings while the pitcher reads the catcher’s signs. The click of the computer mouse. The slow tapping of my foot to the music. More faint are the sounds of the parrot eating cashews and biting on a paper bowl.

I close my eyes and hear my own breathing. I slow the breathing and slow my mind. All the sounds in my writing room are familiar and welcome. They relax me and comfort me while I wait for that damn Thalia to return from wherever the hell she’s wandered off to this time. I know that if I wait she will eventually return, to nudge me toward an idea for a new story, perhaps something light and humorous. Or, as is more often the case, she will take the large sledge hammer that she carries, the one with my name on it, and apply it to my thick head, producing a remarkable sound that drowns out all the other sounds, a sound that opens my ears to a new story that was right there in front of my face all the time.

In the meantime I listen to my own sighs. Diana Krall is singing “I get along without you very well.” Oh, great! Just five minutes ago it was “besame mucho,” and now this. I give the parrot another cashew and wait for the sound of the sledge hammer.