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When I assemble story lists, which are included in my larger notebooks, there is an entire category that is made of sounds: creaks, hisses, roars, whispers. Many sounds are tied to places, to stretches of terrain. Nature is filled with clues, warnings and songs. Every town, city and village I've ever spent time in has their own idiosyncratic sound signatures. Keeping tabs of these aural elements helps when constructing the bones of a tale. Certain sounds are very specifically tied to mood, and provide a way of toning down or dialing up tension.
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When I was young, after our family had moved back into town - which included access to televisions- my grandmother would come up and spend an entire year with us at a time. This was a profound and magical part of my education. We were room mates and friends. Grandma was a voracious reader and a vivid storyteller. We read books to eachother: Lousia May Alcott, Jane Austen, Edgar Allen Poe, Ray Bradbury, Outer Limits comics and on and on. I still remember the stunning retelling my grandmother performed for me of Anthony Hope's The Prisoner of Zenda. There was a ritual that informed my sense of the importance of sound effects as well as spoken dialogue. Whenever I came up with an excuse or was I was able to devise an 'illness' in order to stay home from school, Grandmother would turn on the television with its staticky black and white series and unnerving advertisements. Grandmother had me turn the volume off. Occasionally, I would inexpertly play minor chords on my mother's electric organ while the two us created the dialogue. We shook sheets of foil and sometimes I'd don my tap-shoes and click across a stretch of linoleum. Today I apply the lessons I learned from my beloved mentor both in breaking through what I call Writer's Wall and when I'm puzzling over which auditory cues I want to include in a particular scene.
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