It’s 3:29 am, and I’m just back from the diner.
Because I have kids, I rarely stay up this late anymore. It’s just not really possible, because even when my wife wakes up with the tykes, inevitably I have to rise, too.
Thing is, I am—by all measures—the hootiest of night owls. I love the night. Love it. The smell. The sounds. The weirdness. The diner was particularly hoppin’ tonight, being that it’s right across the street from a college, and college kids+weekend=drunk stupidity. This one girl was talking about how classless her father’s girlfriend is—using about 500 curses to describe her. This other guy asked the 20-year-old waitress for caviar—she didn’t find it funny. I heard one guy telling his pals how “badly I have to shit.” A waitress gave me the evil eye for switching seats and thereby departing her tip territory. So on and so on.
Days, by comparison, are dull. Predictable. Nights rarely are. Perhaps one day, when my kids are in college and—knock on wood—I’m still writing, I’ll return to my old-school ways of staying up until 4 am and sleeping until 10 or 11.
Doubtful, but enticing.
On a side note, the book I’m working on can be 160,000 words. I’ve already written 105,000—and there’s tons more to cover. In other words, oy.