So There, Mornings.

I realize that many people have to get up at five-thirty in the morning. And, strangely, many people actually like to get up early, drink their tea, sit in the peaceful silence and contemplate their lives without all the distractions of a busy, awake world.

I do not.

Remember my post called Please God, Don't Make Me Get up Early? I do. What I remember most is that I had a pretty strong feeling that getting up early to write would not be good for me or my book. Always trust your instincts.

The problem is, my nighttime situation has not improved much since then. My writer friend E was over one night and after witnessing the bedtime routine with my kids, convinced me to give morning writing a chance. Otherwise, she pointed out practically, I will never, ever get my book done.

So, inspired by E's pep talk, I decided to give it a shot. I would get up at five-thirty, do fifteen minutes of yoga and then write for two hours before my kids woke up (ha ha! Oh, it sounds so good...). Unfortunately, I was soon reminded that in order for me to be a pleasant, functioning human being, I should not get up before seven.

Here's how it went:

Although I was in bed early the night before, little J crawled in with me at four in the morning. It could have been the kicking, intermittent yelling in his sleep or blanket-stealing, but let's just say that by the time my alarm went off I was actually glad to get out of bed.

But not for long. I was still tired. The kind of tired that makes you act and feel like an angry, unreasonable toddler. I sat there in the dark glaring at my computer monitor (my bed is beside my desk and I didn't want to wake J with the lights). I wrapped my miserable self with the fuzzy penguin blanket I stole from the end of my bed after untangling it from J's feet.

Did I feel like writing? Hell no. But I opened the file for my new novel. I stared at it. I read over some paragraphs that I had been happy with the day before and decided that every single word sucked.

I told myself to just carry on where I left off, which was with my main character, a lovely young girl who I am quite fond of and had no cause to suddenly be so irritated with, standing at the door of a small shack in Yellowknife.

I sat there drumming my fingers on my desk, waiting for some sort of inspiration to happen. Waiting for her to do something. After awhile I got the sense that she was looking at me over her shoulder a little uncertainly, as though to say, "what next?"

"Just go in," I hissed. God. Did I have to spell everything out?

I went on to spend over an hour trying to figure out if she should knock, go running in or stand at the door and wait. I had her try all three and they all seemed ridiculous. I was getting reproachful glances after having her fly back and forth through the door so many times, so finally I left her sitting on the porch. "Stay there," I told her wearily. Weak morning light was coming though my bedroom window by then.

Poor kid. I hope she's still there when I get back. Which will not be before seven in the morning. Because I have read everything I wrote that day and I can't keep a single word.

See? I told you so.