One of my rules as an author is to avoid writing after ten in the evening. By nature I am nocturnal and I also have a killer finishing instinct, which means that I’m unwilling to have a break in the midst of a good flow. This used to be an asset but I’m now in a phase where I also need to be a fully functional mother of three at seven in the morning. Sometimes I need to be available at six, or at any time of the night for that matter. A few years ago I decided that sleep was so precious that I must never touch my laptop after ten and try to go to sleep by midnight.
Yesterday I was fully awake after a fantastic Plastikman party with lovely food and cider spiced up with fresh mint from our garden plot. It was one in the morning and I thought I could just open a document and add a few words. Now picture an alcoholic saying that he’s going to open a bottle and have just a few drops; that’s me when I’m in the mood to write and especially at night. When I came to there was plenty of daylight outside and the clock told me what I didn’t want to know: that I would have about three or four hours sleep at the most.
Early in the morning the Mrs Hyde version of me (a brutal and primitive Mrs Modén) got out of bed, changed my son’s nappy and made coffee. I left the room to look for some clothes, then came back to see my son grab the coffee cup from the table and pour it down the sink as if he wanted to tell me something. I’m sure my son meant well but I needed my magic transformation potion very badly so I made some more and enjoyed the rest of the morning. It wasn’t that awful after all and I will do it again. I’d rather have a life than proper bedtimes.
