Daylight "Savings" Time

I don't know about you, but Daylight Savings Time always messes me up. I set clocks ahead, or back, and end up being dazed and confused for days afterward. This is distressing because my writing is based on a regular schedule.

Writers often rely on routine. I awake early, so you might think an extra hour's sleep would be welcome. Instead, I awake in the middle of the night, confused as to what time it really is. My bedside clock and my phone disagree. Who's right?

Who's write? My routine is to stumble out of bed into my writing chair. I try to scrawl down my thoughts before the day interferes. Days always interfere.

On Daylight Savings morning, I'm already confused when I awake. I sit down to write and find myself growing sleepy. The day stretches on and on, but I'm not inspired. I'm just tired.

Writing is my routine. Like an infant, I suffer without it. Regular hours, or even just regular minutes, will keep me honest. I rely on that time in a way that may not be healthy, but at least it's productive.

All the time I know worse is coming. Some six months later I will be forced to get out of bed at the new 3 a.m. It will feel like 2 a.m. by then. I'll try to write around my yawns. Work is rather unforgiving when it comes to time changes, so writing has to be compromised. It will take days for my body to catch up.

This weekend got away from me. What time is it? I have no idea. All I know is that I was somehow robbed of my time to write.

Comments

Dusty

My, this thing is dusty. My fans—hi, Mom!—perhaps believe me to have perished in the pandemic. No, it was nonfiction’s fault. Since the pandemic began I’ve had two nonfiction books published and have written a third. With a nine-to-five job something’s got to give. Unfortunately it’s been fiction. Well, the groundhog didn’t see his shadow yesterday, so it must be safe to come out. I shuffled away the rejection notes and began submitting again. I’ve got a backlog of weird stories and maybe some new publishers have emerged? The thing is, don’t you just hate it when you’re in the mood to submit and some lit journal has its window for submissions firmly shut? My last story, “ The Hput, ” was published about three years ago. Oh, I’ve submitted since then, but with no traction. Well, it is winter. I’ve got a lot of stories lined up. I’ve been sending them out again, dreaming of making a dime at what I love doing best. When you’ve been writing for half a century, you l

Too Much Writing?

Has this ever happened to you? Have you written a story that you’ve completely forgot? Not only completely forgotten, but made unfindable? I play games with my stories and sometimes the joke’s on me. Okay, I suffer from graphomania. I write constantly. I do try to keep organized—I use a spreadsheet that has all my submissions on it. It has rejection/acceptance dates (mostly rejection). Lots of information. I decided to list on it every story, whether finished or in process. There are far too many (mostly in process). When I finish a story I often submit it. If I get burned, I’m shy about resubmitting. I often rewrite at this stage. Then, when I feel brave enough, I try again. The spreadsheet is color-coded. There, in the color that indicates finished and ready to submit is a story cryptically titled “The Password.” I don’t remember this story. I can’t recall what it was about or why I thought it was ready to publish. Looking through my electronic files,

The Same Old Story

After a story is rejected from a literary magazine—a rather frequent occurrence—I always revise it. For stories rejected half a dozen or more times—a rather frequent occurrence—the stories can shift substantially. In a version of the old saw that “this is the axe used by George Washington to chop down the cherry tree; it has had five new handles and three new heads,” I wonder if the story is the same after such revision. I write in the flush of inspiration. The story comes to me roughly complete. The literati say “no,” and I assume the fault must be my own. I knuckle down and start trying to revise to their liking. The action changes. The ending changes. The characters change. Is it the same story? Is the fault that my addled brain seems to have trouble telling a story someone wants to read? Is it the curse of an internet that makes writers of anyone with fingers to type? I started writing fiction four decades ago. If I’d tried to start publishing then, perhap

K. Marvin Bruce

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