At 0430, I get up and sneak across the room. I don’t want to wake Molly up. Not this early. In the darkness, I slip my dressing gown on and walk into the study. After closing the door I flick the light on and stand there, semi-awake, squinting.
Then my day begins.
People often ask me how I can get up so early, every day of the week. The answer is simple. I have a reason to rise before the sun does. I write in the hours before work. I go to work before I show up to my job.
In the summer, the mornings are refreshing. They teem with promise and potential. The sun kisses the sky as it rises above the horizon. But in the winter, the mornings are cold and dark. And quieter somehow. In the winter, my bed is warm and welcoming. But the mornings are cold and mean. It’s as if they’re trying to persuade me to avoid them. But I don’t.
Summer or winter. Sunday or Wednesday. They’re all the same. Because although the mornings are cold, there is something more chilling. To me, the cold of a winter dawn is warmer than the iciness I feel from neglecting my purpose.