Early mornings are for writing.
But early mornings are also for coffee. They’re for deep thinking and deeper bowls of cereal. When I do manage to force myself out of bed at 5 a.m. (let’s be honest, mostly 6 a.m.), I sit under the kitchen light and think about all the things the world won’t let me think of when the sun arrives, when everyone else is awake.
Early mornings are for reflections. I don’t look into mirrors, I look into myself. I know there are stories in there, dusty, some of them waiting patiently, some of them howling. Sometimes, I can feel the words coming, tumbling, barreling up my body, through my arms and into my fingers. Sometimes the words have been abandoned for so long they come up ugly, in the wrong order, unpolished. I have to restart them, I have to coddle them to remind them why they exist.
When the words don’t come at all, that’s when I know haven’t been myself for a long time.
I keep thinking: whatever has been bled out of me, I’ll polish. If it won’t come, I’ll wait. I’ll handle my writing at its worst because it feeds my soul when it’s at its best. And when my soul is fed, that’s when the world makes sense. That’s when the early mornings of frustration, impatience, fear, and self-doubt are worth it.
That’s when blank pages, clumsy words, silence, and blank spaces blank spaces blank spaces are worth it.