I used to be a night owl, once upon a golden time. When I was a teenager, my thoughts best collaborated under a starry night with the moon shining through my window. Now, I want nothing more but to rise early and write in the stillness of the cool morning. When the sun first begins to haze through the trees is the time I am able to sit in the stagnant tranquility and collect my thoughts.
I’m not really sure when this change occurred – sometime in the past few years, but I am grateful for it. It’s probably all in my head, but I feel like I get a lot more done in my morning writing sessions than I did in my moonlight tirades. Maybe it is the feeling of time not being quite so infinite as it once was. After all, I eventually have to get up from my screen and accomplish other things, but when I was a moonlighter I acted like I had all the time in the world.
Perhaps those were the words of youth. Maybe I am just getting older, but mornings are so much sweeter than I used to find them. The sounds are musical: birds warbling, insects just beginning to buzz, spiders making their morning catch, the burr of a coffee grinder singing. I also love the routine of a good morning: wake up, step outside in the fresh air, feel the warm summer sun and the coolness of a morning breeze, and come back inside to either write, make coffee, or pick out an outfit to match my mood for that day. Lately, that has been all about dresses.
I have been wanting a dress like this for rather a long time, but me being the patient buyer that I am, I waited until I saw what matched the sketch my mind had created. I knew I wanted blue and white stripes, I knew I wanted it sleeveless, and, although button down was not originally in my head, I am always a lover of front buttons. I wanted something that could be worn in a garden just as easily as in the middle of downtown (re: you will see this styled again, I am sure). Most of all, I wanted something that would inspire me to write, as I want for all of my clothes.
And I am inspired. Here I am. Here you are. Here we are all. Writing our own stories, singing our ballads. The time for writing is always in the present. This moment, now, in the haziness of a summer morning, or the depth of a starry evening.
When do you write, my friends? Is there a time when the chord rings in your chest and you know words must escape you?