How I Write

A Short Story about Meeting in the Magic Hour

but first, coffee

It’s fascinating to peek behind the curtains to find out how others write. Here’s a glimpse into my time: The Magic Hour.

My eyelids lift to the darkness. Is it still night? I question, as I feel my way around the bed. It’s my 3rd trip to the bathroom this night, so I assume it must be close to morning. I find the edge of the mattress with my hand. It guides me around the bed to my husband’s side, where the clock informs me that it’s 5:02 am. Yay, I think, I can get up. I stopped sleeping with my phone in my room after several unfortunate MOTN (Middle of the Night) shopping sprees. Which in turn led to several days of returning sprees. You’d think I’d learn, but alas I did not and have not. After the third incident, my phone was banished (by me) to spend nights in the guest room aka: The Grandkid Room, across the hallway.

In addition to the clock, the door is on my husband’s side of the bed. Sides were chosen when we moved to this old house. Unlike most couples who choose a side of the bed and stay on it for life, our “sides” have changed with each home we’ve lived in. The rule is this: my side is furtherest from the door, his side is closest. Why? Well obviously it’s in case a murderer gets in, he gets murdered first. I have a chance to escape while the murdering is going on. My grown children point to the fault in my logic, “Mom, if a murderer is taking out Dad, there’s absolutely no way you’re going to survive.” Regardless, we’ve been married for 34 years so our system isn’t changing now. It’s followed us to 5 homes across the country and back, and even holds true in hotel rooms. In spite of the fact, we’ve never encountered a murderer, I’m prepared.

I slowly slide the cold, tarnished, brass latch of the door and pull it towards me. Old doors are weird. Ignoring my stealth, the door squeaks open announcing my presence. I’d make a terrible spy, I think. I glance over at my husband, whew, still sleeping. I tenderly close the door behind me. One, two, three steps to the corner. 7 paces down the hallway avoiding the loose floorboard as I go. The hallway is lit only by the moonlight. I feel a bit like Mary Ingalls in the later episodes of Little House on the Prarie, where she goes blind. My eyes slowly adjust to this semi-dark world.

It’s not that I don’t want my husband to join me in the morning. Well, actually that’s a lie. It’s exactly that I don’t want my husband to join me in the morning. Morning is my where I’ve found my Magic Hour. Solitude is it’s first ingredient.

This is our 5th home and the first home we’ve lived in without a master bathroom. I know, shocking right? It was almost a deal-breaker for me. In the end, the 100+ year charm of the house won me over and I bid farewell to the modern-day convenience of an attached bath. It’s not as bad as you may imagine it to be. This floor of the house holds our bedroom, two guest bedrooms, an office and our bathroom. My two teenagers, the last of 5 kids, reside upstairs in the third floor. They have the entire floor to themselves. Including a tv room and their own bedrooms with a jack-and-jill bathroom between them. (PS. A jack-and-jill bathroom between a teenage girl and a teenage boy is the mother of all fight-makers) It’s ironic that we, the people who pay for the house, don’t have an attached bath, but they do. In case you’re wondering, an entire floor of a home is still not enough to contain the mess of teenage living. I’m happy it’s out of sight, and this bathroom I’ve finally reached, is ours alone.

I backtrack through the hallway and pad softly down the wooden staircase. Every time I descend, I think the same thought, “We should redo these steps and get a carpet runner for them.” We never do. The chilled family room air is a razor-sharp knife. This room is a rectangle. It was added on to the original 1886 farmhouse in 1905. It is heated by a single radiator in the corner. At one time a second radiator mirrored this one, catty-corner across the room, but a previous homeowner decided one radiator was plenty to heat the cavernous space and removed it. Only the pipes remain, to clue us into the existence of prior days with plenty of heat.

Instead, like the Ingalls family, I bend and start a fire in the woodstove. The flames spark and catch before me. Growing with each second. The fire crackles as it dances around the logs until the whole thing is ablaze. Satisfied, I head to the kitchen. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee awaits me. When my husband retired he asked me what he could do to make my day 10 times better. I’m pretty sure he was hoping the answer would be, “lets have sex every day.” Alas, he was out of luck. My reply was, “you could make the coffee each night and set it to brew before I get up.” It’s a warm good morning hug for me. It’s not sexy, but he does it.

I fill my cup and stir in the creamer. I watch as the white swirls into the black and together they mingle enough to become the perfect shade of brown. I take my warm mug, the one with the good handle, and head to my ever warming family room. I light my candle and grab my laptop and cover myself with the coziest blanket. The perks of being the first one up.

It’s usually still dark when the words meet me in the space that is the Magic Hour. Sometimes I get in the flow and can write away the hour(s) before anyone else awakes.

In the flow, I meet God. In the flow, words pour forth, as if I’m recording them rather than thinking them. In the flow, I meet myself. In the flow, I become whole. I embrace the organic piece that comes forth. This is how I write.

I used to think I’d need my own office, lined with a wall of bookshelves, to retreat in to write. I’ve realized over time that early morning Magic Hours on my couch are where I consistently show up day after day. It isn’t glamorous, but it works.

Do you know when your Magic Hour is? Mornings aren’t for everyone. Maybe yours is in the night. Maybe it’s not a solid hour, it’s chunks of time that fit in the margins of your life. The important thing is to find your best time and meet yourself there. Maybe you need to be alone? Maybe not. Maybe it’s quiet. Maybe there’s a certain soundtrack playing through your headphones.

Do you know where you find your Magic Hour? Maybe outside is where you find the flow. Walking, moving, dancing, writing?We were each made with creativity in our soul. Meet yourself in your own Magic Hour. The world is waiting to see what you create.

Do you need a writing prompt? For this piece I prompted myself to describe the details of my morning. It evolved into a peek into my writing practice. I really wanted to set the scene & give you some insight into my life instead of coming out and boringly saying I write in the morning. How’d I do?

I’d love to hear where you write & when.

P.S. If you’ve enjoyed reading, send some hearts (click the ❤️), comment 💬 or restack🔁 on Substack or share on social media. Thanks so much!! Xo