There is apparently a hashtag for writers who are writing — #amwriting. I can’t not read it as “morning writing,” which is the exact fantasy I lust after the hardest.
The picture is this: I wake up naturally, feeling rested, at exactly 7 a.m. I kiss my peacefully sleeping, nonapneic husband on the cheek and make my way to the extremely clean kitchen to the coffee maker, which has been helpfully preloaded and just needs me to press the “start brewing” button because the robots don’t deserve to take ALL the jobs, goddammit. My son is either sleeping over at a friend’s house or sleeping in because he is actually a teenager who sleeps until noon instead of 6 a.m. at the latest, even on weekends.
The coffee maker starts grunting, so I fill up the watering can at the sink and make my rounds to the house plants, giving them their morning sip and pep talk. Once they’re sated and the coffee maker starts gurgling to signal it’s almost done, I can pour a cup for myself — a tiny bit of sugar and a medium bit of flavored creamer — and head over to the computer.
It’s there that my laser-focused and not-at-all distracted brain can pull forth exactly the ideas that had been brewing since the last time I sat at the keyboard, knitting together disparate pieces of the narrative that I had left neatly undone. I recall the twists and turns I envisioned in the shower and on the drive back from the post office and work them in without feeling the need to completely rethink every concept of the story from the ground up or start working on some other project that’s been nagging me in the back of my skull. I do not have to look at the clock because I do not have a job other than writing stories and taking photos and making things with my hands. I get lost in the flow of my own imagination, communing with the electricity of creation. I have no desire to check Twitter or Facebook or Instagram or the Washington Post for the latest update on the trash-can fire du jour.
I watch the light change through the open windows as the sun rises over the trees and I step outside on the deck to breathe in the fresh, free-of-mosquitoes-and-pollen air. I am wearing linen clothing of some sort and I’m perfectly happy with my body and I am definitely not sneezing or coughing or itching anywhere. My hair is mussed but not greasy even though I have given up bathing entirely because what a pain in the ass. Also the grey hairs make me look sophisticated and somehow beautiful, especially in the author photo on the back of my 29 best-sellers.
Aaaaand, scene.
Anyway, I’m writing. I’ve got several things working right now, and two of them are big, big, big. Sprawling and complex and important. I love the ideas, I love the research, I love the worldbuilding. I’m not carving out the kind of time I’d like to (see fantasy above) but I’m doing what I can when I can and trying to push ever forward.
I love how delicious the potential feels. I know the hard part comes later. I will be ready. I am ready.