Normally I crawl out of bed at about six, six-thirty, sloughing grave dirt and groaning. I hate waking up. I hate getting out of bed. I hate rushing around the morning trying to get ready for work.
This morning I bounded out of bed at five o’clock. It’s been years since I’ve seen five o’clock when the sun is rising, not setting.
I’ve been thinking about when is best to do my writing; when would suit me and let me get the most done. I remembered that last week, while I was at Ty Newydd, I didn’t have to struggle to get out of bed. I didn’t have to haul myself out of a deathly sleep. It was still early (ish; seven o’clock seems like a lie-in these days), and I was still tired, but I got up easily with the first alarm because I wanted to. There were things going on that I wanted to be a part of. Breakfast in the garden with other writers. Early sunshine and writing.
So I decided to apply that to the rest of my life and do something I wanted to do, for me, before I did something for anyone else. Selfish, perhaps, but I’m in a fortunate position where I don’t need to take care of anyone else first thing in the morning, so I’ll take advantage of that while I can!
I got up at five o’clock this morning and wrote for an hour before I did anything else.
The first half an hour was murder. My eyes were aching and the words kept trying to crawl off the page while I tried to pin them down with my pen. The second half an hour was better, and I got into the flow.
The best bit was having breakfast knowing I’d already accomplished something today, and something I love doing, no less. It’s a sharp contrast to a lot of mornings in the past, where I’ve wanted to curl up beneath the covers and stay there, potentially forever, or at least until the world went away.
I’m going to try it again tomorrow morning. Wish me luck; two mornings in a row might be too much for me.