The golden hour.
I’ve been flirting with the golden hour all week. It’s that magical time in the morning between sleep and work. Technically, I’m awake. The cats have been fed and I have been clothed (sometimes better than others). Teeth have been brushed and hair combed. There have been buses and cars and traffic on city streets, maybe even a train ride if I am feeling puckish.
Then there’s the golden hour. My train and bus rides seem to cut back into a golden half hour, but it’s there: the time when my brain is alert (and seeking coffee) but my internal editor is still bundled up in the sheets with a blindfold over her eyes, the thick coat of night repair cream still caking her face.
The golden hour (or half hour) is a beautiful time. Words come quick and easy, often too much so, but I don’t have to stop to rail against how bad they are or how hokey everything sounds just then. Poetry is written, banter occurs, 5 sentences join with Voltron-like efficiency to form a Polaroid of that character. My fingers move across the keys with no fear, no consequence. Leave that for later when the editorial princess is finished with her beauty sleep.
The thought of starting to wake up any earlier than I do for my job is daunting, but needs to be seriously considered. The golden hour is truly golden, after all. I should milk it for all that it’s worth.
Oh yes. This is why I get up so early. Sometimes it can kill me, just kill me, come 4pm when I am still at the day job, or after the day job, when I can’t bear to think of going out to see friends or doing anything other than ordering takeout and flattening myself on the couch before terrible reality television… Yes, there is a price I pay, for sure. I don’t know how e puts up with me.
But those morning writing hours — two, if I can get up early enough and am lucky — sometimes they are so worth it.
Your description reminds me why.
I often think of oyu when I’m doing it– especially if the commute’s rough.