I have always been a morning writer. That’s what I tell myself: I am most creative first thing in the morning and that is that.
Last night I was writing when it was dark outside. I could see the night through the windows—the lit-up buildings across the way, what little could be caught of the night sky above them. The world seemed quieter somehow, more distant. There was a hush in my writing spot, and my fingers seemed to move faster as if no one could see me.
“… forces one back to oneself, again and again, to clarify and be specific. My night writing began as a revolt against the normal order of things, a perverse protest. But now I write at night for the same reason wolves hunt then—because that’s when I have the greatest advantage.”
Last night, I had just a taste of this. But I left my writing spot before it got too late. Now I am missing the intensity I felt then. I can’t seem to get back that feeling with the sun in my way. I wonder… What kinds of things would I write if I did it at night rather than first thing in the morning? What if I stayed up all night, what would find its way onto the page then?
I have a feeling it might be different. And now I am curious to find out.