My 18-year-old son has a band. It is not folk music, nor does it have the meditative sound of Benedictine monks chanting, classical guitar, or the flute. It isn’t cacophonous, disharmonious, or bombastic. It is, however, loud, and my thin walls are not proof against it.
Sunday is his day, and I’m holed up in my office with earplugs in and earmuffs on, and the sound is [somewhat] muffled. But my characters refuse to cooperate in this atmosphere.
Other distractions: Facebook, Twitter, coffee-to-be-made, foot-tapping, email, Myspace.
The quiet is around the corner, and Diana will have to give it up.