A Writer's Schedule

Okay, so I’m a night owl. So what. I can still have friends, go to church, eat breakfast on time, and write my heart out before I have to go to work in the morning.

I’ve been doing this for five years now and so far I haven’t had any bad side effects. I think. Well, I’ve run through three boyfriends and lost contact with my cousin in Alaska, but, hey – who needs to know what’s happening in Alaska, right?

I’ve traveled the world (in my mind anyway) and enjoyed learning about people everywhere. What a species we are! We communicate in meaningful words and body language, unlike the animals. I know, I know – those of us who have dogs think they understand our words and can communicate telepathically with us. Be honest, though, they don’t make up or write down actual words!

We have dreams and memories and teach our children how to live (well, okay, maybe some of us are not great in that area). We are not exactly like animals, however sometimes we act like them in our lust for living.

I’m not like regular human beings. I spend nights writing and days reading and writing in between my work duties at the bank. It is a very boring job except when a suspicious person, or a very chatty old guy, comes in and we must find a way to get rid of them. We have never had a robbery, or even a threat of one, but we tellers are so bored that we eye a lot of people with curiosity. What’s behind their smile? Why are they in here with two screaming kids who look tired? Why is that one always in tattered clothes when their bank account consistently shows it has thousands of dollars in it? Why does the hot looking guy always have a shortfall in his account?

These thoughts cause me to take a break, eat my sandwich, drink my coke, and read. And, after work when I get home, I write lots of things with lots of titles and subjects. It’s a good thing I live alone and have the ability to order my food delivered. I don’t spend a lot of time cooking and wouldn’t want someone cooking while I’m thinking. The smell of food being cooked in the kitchen would drive me crazy.

Anyway, I love to write at night because it’s quiet. Well, almost. There’s the neighbor’s cat who loves to instigate a love life at least once a week around midnight. The sound is excruciating to my ears but at least the activity is over quickly.

Then there’s the guy with the Harley who comes home every Friday and Saturday night with his engine roaring. He opens his garage door from down the block and seems to think picking up speed to make it into the garage so he can come to a screeching halt at 2am is a good idea. Oh well, at least, like the amorous cat, that doesn’t take much time either.

I love the quiet nights where I can gaze at the darkened sky and the trees outlined in the moonlight and ruminate on world situations. Not that I can do anything about anything in the world, but I like to think about it. I like to think of what changes I would make if anyone cared about my opinion, or if a miracle happened and I suddenly became in charge of something important that could change our daily existence.

So, we come to the time when I have a deadline for my writing. That experience is altogether different. I drink cokes, sometimes coffee, and eat lots of cinnamon rolls and maybe some chicken fingers I bought on the way home from work. I don’t order food in during that time because I would have to get up off my chair and answer the door for the delivery guy who might be good looking and chatty and probably blow up my whole schedule right there.

No, I set up the food I bought on the way home so it will last eight to ten hours, arrange the lighting in the house, turn off my phone leaving it on vibrate in case there is an emergency call, and settle in at my computer with the brightness just right for my tired eyes. Then I get to work, reminding myself that I have always met a deadline and not to stress over this one.

Yeah, right. No stress. No stress. No STRESS!

So, after writing for an hour and a half, I usually realize that I haven’t gotten up to use the bathroom. Do I need to go? I don’t know. Let me think…

After thinking for two long minutes, I decide that I don’t need to go to the bathroom right then. I can wait another five minutes until after I create the perfect sentence. I’m pretty sure about that.

Then the motorcycle guy comes home and scares the bee Jebus out of me, and I have to run to the toilet as fast as I can.

By the time I come back, I have lost my train of thought and the construct of that perfect sentence. So, I have to look back at the previous page I wrote. It looks terrible. I then look back at the one before that. That looks terrible also. Now I realize I have blown my schedule and it’s all the motorcycle guy’s fault.

I rest my head in my hands, look at the ceiling, and pray for patience with myself. I take a few deep breaths and check my pulse, blood pressure, and oxygen level on my Fitbit, and put my head down on my desk. I use my visualization training to see into the future (aka tomorrow) and, in my mind, grin at how happy I am to have met my deadline.

Then I put my hands on the keyboard and get to work again, telling myself not to drink any more coffee until morning. It’s almost over now. I can do this, just like I’ve done before. Just like that damned cat whose activities are nocturnal. Just like mine, I realize.

So, I’m a night owl. Okay.