My time of day is the dark time
A couple of deals before dawn
When the street belongs to the cop
And the janitor with the mop
And the grocery clerks are all gone.
When the smell of the rainwashed pavement
Comes up clean, and fresh, and cold
And the streetlamp light
Fills the gutter with gold
That’s my time of day
My time of day
That’s from “Guys and Dolls” which, as strange as it may seem to you, is probably my favorite musical on the face of the planet. I’m sure there’s no real correlation between a 40’s era musical and my current novel, but “My Time of Day” has always been my favorite song in the whole show. And Sky Masterson is well… dreeeeaaamy.
It’s Saturday, and I’ve been running around most of the day after my nearly two-year old, who is cutting his 2 year molars and simultaneously going through his Terrible Twos. Weekends are an oddity for me because, as my husband was mentioning earlier in the day, they aren’t “off” time as they once used to be. Before the kiddo, we really relaxed on weekends. Heck, I remember entire weekends we did nothing but play World of Warcraft. Like for 10 hours a day. Not that I want to ever do that again, exactly! But, suffice it to say, that sort of reckless leisure is no longer an option.
I’ve tried to maintain a good weekend writing schedule, but it’s nearly impossible. I find the most prolific time to write tends to be late in the day, the weekday. Post-10pm, usually. I don’t know what it is exactly about that time of day that speaks to me, or what. Sometimes I’m surprised I can even form a coherent sentence–but nearly every time I read back what I wrote, it’s volumes better than I thought it was, and better than what I put down during the day before.
Not sure if some of us are “evening” writers, and others aren’t. I was born in the evening, so maybe that makes sense. My son was born at almost 11pm, so he’s that way, too. Thankfully, however, he is sleeping at the moment and not awake writing stories.
It’s currently 9:33pm, and I was trying to write just now. But it’s not quite happening yet. Deep breaths, Natania. It’ll come.