Some people like to write late at night. When they’re all by themselves. When there’s nothing but silence. Utter silence. Heartbreakingly quiet.
Others like to write early in the morning.
Or mid afternoon. At a crowded cafe.
Or on a bus. Scribbling on a notepad.
This is not about the different habits, this is about the fact that habits are just that: stuff you get used to doing to such an extent that you cannot imagine it doing any other way.
But of course you can.
It’s not the ritual, it’s you.
It’s not magic, it’s just work.
Makes it easier to produce stuff. Whether it’s midnight or five in the morning.
It doesn’t matter.
It’s just words. Or paint on canvas. Or notes. Or flashing images. Some moving parts. A piece of marble…
It’s not about the hour or the place or the temperature of the room or how many people are in said room.
It’s not about the tools you use or the number of people waiting for said piece of art.
It’s not about how much you get paid. Or about being paid anything at all.
It’s not about the idea.
It’s about the execution. About what you are wiling to do.
About the time and effort…
Because this is what this world is truly all about: will power.