Early Morning Writing is Magic

When I was in my early twenties, and discovered that I wanted to be this thing called a writer, as opposed to just a copywriter, which I already was and continue to be to this day, I would get up an hour earlier than I needed to before work, pour myself an extremely large cup of coffee, and write.

At first, it was just free writing—the meditative, don’t-think-just-write, “keep your hand moving” sort of writing advised by Natalie Goldberg in her book Writing Down the Bones. The idea was to cast off inhibition and silence your inner critic; get down to the raw, honest stuff. Once I’d gotten good at that, I moved on to writing actual things. Short stories, specifically. I got good enough that I somehow got into the Iowa Writers’ Workshop (Although I maintain to this day that it was a clerical error; ask me about it next time you see me).

I had more time to write there, and didn’t have to contain my writing time to the early morning hours. This was the case for a few years afterward as well. But then these things called “babies” came along, and getting up early to write was neither feasible nor appealing. Those damned babies (that I loved to the moon and back, etc.) were up early too. And even once they started sleeping more, I was too exhausted to consider actually getting myself up before I absolutely had to. I wedged my writing in here and there, between copywriting gigs and on the occasional brief writing retreat. This continued up until recently.

Now that those damned babies (who I love to Mars and the moon—of which apparently Mars is a part—and back, and then back again) are twelve, and increasingly self-sufficient, I am not so perpetually exhausted. I have decided that I need to make some changes in my so-called writing life in light of various events (more on that later). And so, I have started getting up early and writing again.

In fact, I am writing this while sitting on my screened porch with a cup of coffee, looking out at a pristine blue sky, a dogwood in bloom, a breeze in the trees. There are birds chirping and a  dove cooing. (No, seriously, there is a dove cooing. I’m not making this up). The rest of my family is asleep. For me, this is key to the magic of early writing: knowing that the time is mine, and I am not on the brink of being interrupted. My self-doubts and self-censoring  and self-consciousness and other forms of self haven’t quite fully woken up yet either.

Today is Saturday, but when I get up early on weekdays, I’m not thinking about work yet; work can wait another hour. (Although not letting thoughts of looming deadlines and unanswered emails poke their pointy little noses in takes some discipline.)

Some rare, delicious mornings, I am able to tap into that  vein of gushing, prolific creativity and bang out 1000 words in the space of an hour. Other times, I’m lucky if I squeeze out 100,  89 of which probably suck. Even the the’s and are’s. They are flabby, whiny, self-conscious little the’s and are’s.

But you know what? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ve showed up for work, put my butt in my chair, listened to some doves if I’m lucky.  I’ll go back and revise and smooth and polish and rewrite later.

(The dove, FYI, has now ceased cooing, and there’s some  squirrel who sounds like he’s coughing up a hairball. Which is perhaps an apt metaphor for first draft writing.)

What, you ask, am I working on? People love to ask writers that. Today, obviously, I’m writing this post. But most mornings, I’m working on a new novel. And in this way, morning by morning, I have managed to bang out 110 pages of a first draft in five months. Which, given the pace at which I typically write, is epic.

I’m doing some other things quite differently than I have with my writing in the past too, which are also hastening the accumulation of pages—I’ll save those for another day—but the early morning writing is a big part of it.

If you are an aspiring or practicing writer, if you feel like you just don’t have time to write (and I know the feeling very, very well) and if you don’t have small babies or toddlers or family crises or grief or illness or whatever else draining your every spare ounce of energy; if the logistics of your work situation allow it,  I highly, vehemently recommend getting up a little earlier than you have to—even if it’s just fifteen teensy little minutes—and greedily snatching that quiet, unsullied time to write.

You may feel like it isn’t enough, that it won’t make a difference; You may tell yourself, as I did for a long while, that if you don’t have at least a couple of hours to write, it’s not worth writing at all. But stop that. STOP IT! Give it a try. Get your ass out of bed, put a cup of coffee in your hand, sit down and write. Even if it’s just total, stream of consciousness writing, done more as meditation than project; even if you never revise it or show it to anyone; even if it is utter and complete crap, write.

The dove is back now, and starting to get on my nerves. I’m hearing more traffic down on Main Street, and a baby crying somewhere.  I think I hear one of my kids (to Neptune and back!) thumping around inside, fixing themselves  breakfast. I’ve started thinking about the things on my agenda for the rest of the day,  both the chores (clean bathroom, put away laundry, make a dessert for BBQ we’re going to later, answer a couple of emails) and the fun stuff, because it’s Saturday (Boston Pride parade! That BBQ we’re going to later!)

But check it out: I wrote a 935-word blog post. (945, 946….gahh!) I feel like I’ve accomplished something before the day has even fully begun.  I’ll take that feeling with me for the rest of the day. And tomorrow, I’ll get up and do it again.