Notebook - Burning the Midnight Oil

Notebook
Being an early riser, I’ve never done much writing at night. I do work for an hour or two in the evening on occasion, but when I do, it’s usually to finish something I’ve started earlier in the day. It’s rare that I sit down after eight and begin a new work. I would much rather get up at four or five in the morning and start in with a fresh cup of coffee and a clean slate. Despite this, every now and then I wonder what it would be like if I were to get into the habit of sleeping until noon, or even a little later, and working through the night. I especially wonder what effect this might have on my writing. I know I write at least somewhat differently according to the seasons — or if the writing isn’t different, then the subject matter is, and if the subject matter isn’t different, then the way I approach it is. I think I am also more likely to remember certain events according to the seasons in which the events originally took place. And if that is the case, it stands to reason that I would think of things at night that I might not always think of during the day, and this in turn could mean that there is a whole vein of possibility that has thus far gone untapped, which is another way of saying that I might well be doing myself a great disservice by not writing at night. This is something I should probably discuss with our youngest son, who at the age of eighteen actually does stay up most of the night reading and playing his guitar. He usually goes to bed at four — shortly before I get up. Sometimes we meet in the hall when he’s on his way to bed. The trouble is, in order to have this discussion, I would have to stay up as late as he does, and at that hour it’s unlikely I’d be able to make much sense or listen critically. Unless — here’s an interesting idea: I could simply learn to play the guitar — you see, this is how my thinking goes — I could learn the guitar, and instead of talking, we could play our discussion. By the way, it’s nine in the evening. What am I doing here? I should be in bed asleep, or reading, or outside taking a walk. What happened is this: I did take a walk. And before that I wrote a short summary of Zorba the Greek, which I finished reading the other day and which turned out to be quite good. I also ate a small bowl of ice cream — chocolate and vanilla: negative and positive, Christ and the anti-Christ — or, in Star Trek terms, matter and anti-matter. Uncle Matter? What’s the matter? Pancake batter? And then for some strange reason I sat down here and started to type. You see where it’s gotten me.	Also by William Michaelian POETRY Winter Poems ISBN: 978-0-9796599-0-4 52 pages. Paper. —————————— Another Song I Know ISBN: 978-0-9796599-1-1 80 pages. Paper. —————————— Cosmopsis Books San Francisco Signed copies available Main Page Author’s Note Background A Listening Thing Among the Living No Time to Cut My Hair One Hand Clapping Songs and Letters Collected Poems Early Short Stories Armenian Translations Cosmopsis Print Editions Interviews News and Reviews Highly Recommended Let’s Eat Favorite Books & Authors Useless Information Conversation Flippantly Answered Questions E-mail & Parting Thoughts
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