5AM never comes easy. But my newest “inspiring” it’s-5AM-get-up-now-thought: Margaret Atwood, stealing out of her bedroom in her PJs and wild hair at this hour (except she’s in Toronto, so this is what she did at my 2AM), sitting in some sort of solarium or atrium or some other plant-filled -um, sipping black tea from a cat mug (I like thinking about her as a cat-person), and clacking away at her next depressing yet thrilling prediction about the end of humanity at the hands of science/religion/robots.
Not that I’m comparing myself to Ms. Atwood. No. But it’s a teeny tiny little bitty inspiration to think I could at least be up, sipping tea from my cat mug, imitating her. Like playing office when I was a kid.
But I don’t get up this early, unless I’m going to the airport or…well, that’s about it. The only time I got up at this hour on a regular basis was back in college to unpack Pier 1 trucks or catalogue books at Barnes and Noble (and I was NOT happy, nor awake; many a vase was broken and book mis-shelved). But the last two months have found me lying awake before the sun comes up, trying to get back to sleep. Most of the time I succeed.
But this morning, I was thinking…#writingparty.
So there are these authors who post to the #writingparty every night–I’m usually perusing their tweets while brushing my teeth to go to bed. It’s really quite brilliant: they champion each other through the wee hours, bragging about their word count, talking about cafés closing around them, asking for help with name suggestions, admiting defeat at dawn and collapsing into what I suspect is a smug night’s sleep, only to get on and do it the next evening. After brushing my teeth, I lie in bed for a good twenty minutes, wondering if I should be up, writing (maybe). Wondering if I should make an outline for another book (yes). If I should start downloading and listening to newer episodes of the writing podcast: I Should Be Writing (if I want to feel guilty, yes). If I left the front door open (most likely, no).Then I fall into a not-so-smug night of sleep.
Last summer, I totally would have been all up for the #writingparty, when I was on deadline and pounding away at The Circus of Shadows until 2AM. But then, I wasn’t tweeting as a, ahem, “writer” then, but for my own amusement. And, in reverse, I wasn’t writing for my own amusement but for the deadline, which was exhausting. Writing for yourself is one thing; it’s a hobby. It’s art. It’s a personal achievement. But writing for a deadline? That’s like going through labor for 6 months. Not that I’ve done that, the labor thing. But everyone likens writing a book to having a baby, so I’m running with it.
But the #writingparty…that means other people…
That’s the one thing I couldn’t handle about the last year: the isolation. Not seeing people, and then talking about the book when I did see them (boring!). Except that was the only thing on my mind: plot holes, character development, pacing, wording, abused adverbs… (I’m not writing this like this is something new, like it’s some mystery. Writers shouldn’t be socializers; still fresh in my mind is the interview author Mike Sacks did with the Portland Mercury, about how brutal the process is.)
But now that it’s August and I’m in a lull, waiting for PR to start and the book to arrive…well, I’ve made up for the summer I missed last year, I’ve caught up with friends, I’ve created a better writing space, I’ve read more books, and caught up on my sleep–and now I’m lying in bed awake for pete’s sake. Maybe it’s time to actually behave like my bio says. Like someone who has a passion for writing and learning and actually gets up and writes. I guess, I’m saying, I’m ready to join the #writingparty. 1AM, 5AM, noon. I don’t need to abuse myself with writing to exhaustion, but I could amuse myself by writing until that itch is scratched and then going to bed. Or to work. Or whatever.
I even bought a planner (the way most new endeavors begin), penciling in #writingparty as though it were a school assignment. Time for the next book.
Here goes.
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