This morning, I woke up refreshed. There was a cool breeze in the bedroom from an open window. The room was filling with morning light. I searched for my phone, assuming I woke up before my alarm. I found it snaked underneath my boyfriend’s still-sleeping body. Checking the time, I realized—holy shit—it was 7:54. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I forgot to set my alarm, and slept right through my morning writing time.
Bummed does not explain it. I was infuriated. I scared my boyfriend awake with my cursing. In the kitchen, I slammed things: drawers, dishes, utensils. I hastily poured my coffee into the press. Moving too quickly, I nearly burned myself while cooking oatmeal. I was completely thrown off and had the immediate sense that my entire day was ruined. I would now need to go to work like a normal person, and shelve my writing practice until tomorrow morning, when I would finally have the time and head space to write again.
As I write this, it’s now the end of the workday. I made it through, jotting a few notes to myself throughout the day of things to include as edits to my writing draft for tomorrow morning. By lunch I had mostly stopped being angry with myself for forgetting the alarm, but it occurred to me then that this absolute sincere frustration meant something. It meant that my writing has grown into my passion, something I need to do every day to make my day feel fulfilled. It’s not just a hobby or this thing I do when I’m not at work.
As my boyfriend says, “At least you have something else. Can you imagine if your life was just going to an office?” And of course, I can’t.
If you are a writer, and if you can relate to living a dual life and the supreme dissatisfaction of a day without writing, you understand.
(Tomorrow, I’ll wake up earlier.)
(Maybe set two alarms.)