In the wee hours

I have always imagined real writers in the dark. I envision them tucked away in a corner of their abode, writing in the glow of their computer screen or more majestically by candlelight. I imagine that real writers have nowhere they need to be. They just are. They wear their biggest and bulkiest clothing, perhaps creating more space for their creativity to hole up in, waiting for their page number to be called. They leave the teabag in their mug as they drink; they stare out of open windows, a lot. Perhaps I have stayed up too late watching too many movies depicting the image I have in my head of real writers. Maybe I should be in bed early, reading good books and waking up before the sun, to write in the dark.

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