Beep. Beep. Beep.No, that's not my alarm clock—I rarely need one anymore. The persistent ache in my hip or back and my insistent bladder nudge me awake as the bedroom clock glows 4:02 AM. I surrender to the inevitable, sliding my feet to the floor and stretching away the stiffness. Outside, the world remains still and dark, but inside my mind, characters and plot lines already begin to stir. The coffee maker gurgles in the kitchen as I collect dog bowls, fill them up and let the dogs in for their morning meal. Steam rises from my mug, a simple pleasure that signals the start of my sacred hours. After grabbing my protein shake, I settle into my favorite spot by the bay window, laptop warming my legs. From this perch, I watch darkness slowly retreat from Switzer Mountain. The first birds appear at the feeder—chickadees today, flitting back and forth in the growing light. Yesterday's writing session for "His Greatest Regret" ended with my protagonist facing a difficult decision. Now, in these quiet pre-dawn moments, his voice comes to me clearer than ever. My fingers move across the keyboard, the gentle clicking the only sound in the house. No television blares car restoration shows. No interruptions to tell me about work drama. Just me and the story unfolding on the screen, historical details verified by research companions only a click away. By the time the sun crests the horizon, my word count has grown by several hundred. Saturday mornings like this are especially productive—before DAR social media posts need scheduling and the weekly #52Ancestors blog post demands attention. When I hear the bedroom door slide open between 8 and 10 AM, I've already lived half a day in another century. On weekdays, I cherish the quiet hour after packing my husband's lunch and watching his taillights disappear down the driveway. That precious time before logging into my day job allows me to sketch ideas for "The Path Home," the sequel taking shape in my mind. Evenings find me on the couch, laptop balanced precariously as our son arrives to collect his dog, Mocha, who at this point has had enough horseplay with his buddy, Scout, and just wants cuddles. Then we let our daughter's dog Mabel back out to cuddle with us on the couch. It looks like a three-ring circus when the dogs are being moved about and my son stands around sharing his day with us. All the while, my husband's latest car restoration show provides unwanted background noise. I type through it all, though the words come slower, the immersion less complete. But tomorrow? Tomorrow brings another 4 AM, another steaming cup of coffee, another meeting with my characters in the silent house. They're waiting for me there, in those magic hours when the world sleeps and writers create. What about you? Do you find your creativity peaks with the sunrise or midnight oil? Drop me a line and share how you get the creative juices flowing at amygennut@gmail.com, or ask me other questions you would like to know. Until next week, Amy Crooks | 
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