When it comes to creative writing, I’m mostly a short form kind of guy. My books are more studies than anything else. Meditations on a theme, bursts of satire, picture books for kids. I write short pieces, in part, because that’s how my mind works, but in part because I don’t seem to have the time and focus I need to write longer ones.

But lately, I’ve been feeling like writing a longer one, namely, a “chapter book” for grade school kids. But in taking on the creation of a sustained narrative, there’s so much to keep track of, so much to figure out. That kind of concentration just doesn’t fit inside my chaos of a life.

And so I’ve come up with a new plan: get up really early so that I have a little time to write at the start of each day.

The plan calls for setting the alarm for 5:00am and waking my body and brain with a run.

Even in early September, it’s really dark at 5:00am.

It might as well be 2:00am.

The sky is velvety black.

The roads are empty.

The bridge is deserted.

There’s no one stirring in the houses.

The low-wattage yard lamps are my only lighthouse at the far end of Truslow Road.

The little town slumbers along the river.

All is still quiet as I come back up Water Street.

And home again to my slumbering barn.

But the bakers are awake next door. And world smells like cinnamon and sugar.

I head upstairs and sit down at my keyboard. For an hour or so, the house is still and I am free. I’m writing this book a few pages at a time, one morning at a time.

It stands to reason that eventually it will be done. For now, I’m not in any rush.