If her distractions were external, she could write anywhere really and she envied those who could. Her only productive option had to be extreme and so it was. At 4 am when the sun was still down and her mind was still waking up, she wrote. She honored the quiet and let every voice speak. It was her morning conference, her reprieve, her way of silencing and exposing the ones inside. By noon it would be as if it had never happened at all. When she did muster the courage to review her work, it was always an alarming reward. When you spend the hours of your day sternly dismissing a voice, it’s shocking to hear it aloud.
Thumbing through old notebooks, scraps, and sketches would inspire and terrify her imagination, so she chose the outside. The front porch became her sacred space. She could watch the sun set and an occasional passer by. She could set her clock to her neighbor’s nightly routines and imagine their chaos or calamity based on her mood. Most of her work on these nights consisted of lists and templates of her imagination. In this way she was always preparing to write.