So Thursday night I got an 8 ball and settled in for a nice night of DVR'd Lifetime movies and a coked-up writing binge. (All of us cokehead writers think we can be the next Stephen King...) I didn't have to work on Friday, and hadn't made any plans, so I decided on a night in by myself. I dug in at 9pm, and was soon flying high and having a grand old time, finished a story, and as you can see, finally posted entries to this blog that had been languishing as "drafts "for months.
Everything was just brilliant, as the Brits would say, until about 4:30am - what I call the "rock star hour." This is the time when the rookies quit, pop their Tylenol PM and go to bed. Anyone who keeps going past this point knows they're in for the long haul. They have commited to seeing the sun rise. But - there's a difference between continuing to do lines in the still-hazy blue of 6am and hunching beside a coke-laden CD case lit by the full force of the sun. Once you hear your neighbors leaving for work, the alarm bells should be loud and clear. It's quitting time. The time when even the real rock stars know that getting sleep is necessary, if only so that they can be fully rejuvenated to party the next night.
Take my advice. Don't wait until you hear the mailman's keys jingling outside your window.