In the moments before and after all great things (bad or good) there is an epic silence. Some consider it a sucking out of air, like a tornado of emotion.
I can recall a deafening silence when my father let the screen door slam. I was only ten, but I knew he wasn't ever coming back.
I remember the quiet snowy night in labor all alone with my first born.
I remember sitting by my great uncle Tony. He was an old man, but strong. He was in hospice and I sat there inside his quiet death.
There was a starry night on a beach in Jamaica... the silence before I said "yes...."
And now, all my children are in school. And the crickets thrum all day. But the house is quiet.
"By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes..." William Shakespeare
Wickedly good? Or bad? No matter. We writers can use all of our experiences. Especially those quiet ones.