I am a morning writer. I like to migrate directly from my bed to my couch, pyjama-clad, to dump my morning thoughts into my mac.
There’s something fluid about a morning mind. It’s just groggy enough to be unconcerned about the inner naysayer. It hasn’t entirely separated the events of the night from the events of the day. Dreams are still a little buoyant. Words are still a little wiggly, dancing coyly as they wait to be reined in. It’s a game, this morning prose, an exercise in letting go and urging on.
It’s a shame, then, that most mornings I stumble hazily through my morning routine of eating, washing, and dressing for a day of mundane writerlessness. I have this outside life, you see, that requires me to deposit myself at specific locations at predetermined times, despite my unwillingness to materialize in public before noon. Jobs and gym classes are interferences, staving away the freshness of the day and grounding me in socially acceptable self-censorship. By evening, the words have often wiggled away.
Unless…