I keep hearing/reading from writers that they have these disturbing schedules. The playwright who came to talk to our class on Saturday gets up at 4:30 every morning; Mary Oliver gets up and goes hiking and then writes all before she has to get ready to go to work.

Yesterday I set my alarm for 5:30, but as usual I didn't have the willpower to obey it. This morning Eric was getting up early to go in to work, so I did actually get up at 5:15; amazing to me but probably to no one else.

It was productive, I guess. I collected a bunch of rough drafts with potential to revise for submission, and I wrote another 1.5 pages of my short story, also extremely rough. But even though that might not be much progress, the best part is my feeling of accomplishment. Even if I didn't accomplish anything. I still got out of my comfy bed at quarter after five. I probably only got one line that I'll actually use, though.

And it really is peaceful and beautiful that early. The sun is just now climbing over the rowhomes across the street, but the sky has been steadily lightening for the past hour.

The crappy part: now I have to go get ready for work, then work all day.