My Time to Write

I had a very productive writing night tonight with my local writers’ group. I ended up starting a fiction piece which is highly unusual for me, mostly because I always tell myself that I don’t write fiction well. Anyway, at the end during our social time another writer said something that bounced around in my brain the whole way home. Another writer said she’d been really productive during the writing session and this writer replied that it was probably a good writing time for her. She indicated that despite knowing that she wouldn’t likely be productive, but came out anyway just to meet some fellow writers. She said her writing time is in the morning.

At the end of the meeting during our social time, another writer said something that has bounced around in my brain the whole way home. One writer said she’d been really productive during the writing session and this a second writer replied that it was probably a good writing time for her. The second writer indicated that despite knowing that she wouldn’t likely be productive this evening, she came out anyway just to meet some fellow writers. She said her writing time is in the morning.

I wonder if this is correlative to how some people consider themselves morning people or night owls? If you consider yourself an early bird, does that mean your writing would likely be at its most inspired first thing in the morning and vice versa for those who consider themselves night owls?

Lately, my writing time has come whenever I find time to sit alone for a half an hour or so and eke something out; however, I recognize in myself a draw towards the evening as a creative time as well.

I remember when I was in high school how I would stay up at night in my closet turned office writing my heart out. I wrote poetry and I wrote love letters. My love letters were epic in length. I would pour my entire life story out on the page with all my thoughts and feelings bleeding through. Professing my love to whichever flavor of the month I’d been tempted by. I think I was often more devout to the process of writing a love letter than the actual recipient of the letter. My art was lost on my audience who often found my letters “tl;dr” as they say these days.

I’m not sure why I ever thought a teenage boy would be interested in knowing my entire life story in such detailed manner; it wasn’t like I’d really been alive all that long or experienced all that much of importance at that point anyway, but I apparently thought I had a story to tell.

These days I spend my insufficient free time balancing a dabbling in both art and writing. Occasionally, I will wake in the night with a poetic turn of phrase in my mind and depending on my with-it-ness I may even take a moment to jot it down in the notepad on my phone before drifting back to sleep.

 

 

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