I don’t. I could listen to instrumental music while writing or doing other mental work, but I can’t have anything with words / lyrics involved. It’s distracting and can warp my writing.
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I don’t. I could listen to instrumental music while writing or doing other mental work, but I can’t have anything with words / lyrics involved. It’s distracting and can warp my writing.

Summer night:
bell pavilion - silent,
but for cricket chirp.
I love thy music, mellow bell,
I love thine iron chime,
To life or death, to heaven or hell,
Which calls the sons of Time.
Thy voice upon the deep
The home-bound sea-boy hails,
It charms his cares to sleep,
It cheers him as he sails.
To house of God and heavenly joys
Thy summons called our sires,
And good men thought thy sacred voice
Disarmed the thunder's fires.
And soon thy music, sad death-bell,
Shall lift its notes once more,
And mix my requiem with the wind
That sweeps my native shore.
Matter comes in countless varieties,
And the forms are evershifting, as well.
Writers must dance the varied characters
To dulcet lines where elegance dwells,
Finding the right pace, cadence, and stresses
To blend like harmony in the five hues.
Though the tune fades in and out randomly
And the path is rugged and hazard-strewn,
Those who know the ways of change and order
Will find all falls into place with a flow.
But if one misses the proper pivots
It's like grabbing the tail to steer the nose --
Like yellow painted onto wet, black walls,
One's writing becomes muddy, and it stalls.
The original in Simplified Chinese:
其为物也多姿,其为体也屡迁。
其会意也尚巧,其遣言也贵妍。
暨音声之迭代,若五色之相宣。
虽逝止之无常,固崎锜而难便。
苟达变而识次,犹开流以纳泉。
如失机而后会,恒操末以续颠。
谬玄黄之粗叙,故浍涊而不鲜。
I have wished a bird would fly away,
And not sing by my house all day;
Have clapped my hands at him from the door
When it seemed as if I could bear no more.
The fault must partly have been in me.
The bird was not to blame for his key.
And of course there must be something wrong
In wanting to silence any song.