Circadian Rhythms and You Be You

Circadian Rhythms and You Be You

Let me start with a bummer, because life isn’t always cupcakes and cozy mysteries. When my mom passed away a few years ago, she was just about to get up—at three in the morning. Yes, three. In. The. Morning. I mean, who does that? My mom, that’s who. She’d get up when the rest of us were deep in dreamland, do a few things, rest, do a few more, rest again. That was her rhythm. Wash, rinse, repeat.

As a teenager, I thought it was weird. You’re supposed to sleep in late, drag your bleary-eyed self to school or work, suffer through the day, then stay up until the wee hours laughing with friends, eating questionable pizza, and pretending you’re invincible. That’s the script!

And yet… as I’ve gotten older, I find myself—brace for impact—doing the same thing. Gasp! I get up early. I mean really early. Before sunrise. Before the world even stretches. And I love it. There’s something delicious about that quiet hour when it’s just me, my coffee, my words, and a certain fluffy Papillon (looking at you, Blueberry) blinking sleepily from her blanket fort as if to say, “Really? Now?”

By the time the rest of the world is opening one eye, I’ve already written a chapter, folded a load of laundry, answered emails, and contemplated the mysteries of life (like why socks disappear into alternate dimensions). Then, come late afternoon, I fade faster than a plot twist with no payoff. That’s my recharge time. Maybe a nap. Maybe tea. Maybe both.

It doesn’t work for everyone, of course. I have friends who thrive at midnight. Their creativity switches on just when mine is snoring. They write, paint, bake, or build entire websites at 2 a.m. while I’m drooling on my pillow.

And here’s the best part—we’re both right.

For centuries, the world insisted we all march to the same rhythm: 9 to 5. That was “normal.” That was “productive.” Anything else was suspicious. But now? We’re starting to realize the truth: there is no one-size-fits-all rhythm. Morning lark or night owl, burst worker or steady hummer—it’s all good.

Creativity, after all, doesn’t wear a wristwatch.

So, I say let’s celebrate the freedom to be you. The world’s changed. The old 9-to-5 norm? Poof. Gone. Maybe you’re at your best before sunrise with a mug of coffee and a yawning dog. Maybe you’re unstoppable at midnight with lo-fi beats and a candle flickering beside your laptop. Whatever works for you—that’s what’s right.

And honestly, isn’t that kind of wonderful?

So here’s to my mom, the original 3 a.m. overachiever. Turns out, she wasn’t weird at all. She was just ahead of her time.

Comments

The Absolute Madness of Naming Characters

Let’s talk about one of the most ridiculous struggles of writing a book. No, I’m not talking about the part where you stare at the blinking cursor like it personally insulted your ancestors. I’m talking about naming characters. It should be easy, right? Just slap a name on them and move on? Oh, my sweet summer child. If only. See, naming a character is like naming your kid—except worse, because nobody is going to complain if your kid and their cousin both end up being named Liam. But if your main villain is named Liam and you accidentally give the quirky coffee shop owner in book three the same name? Cue the existential crisis. Let’s walk through the madness. The Overthinking Spiral of Doom You start writing, and there’s that moment: your brand-new character walks onto the page, full of potential. All they need is a name. A simple name. Something strong, something fitting, something— Oh no. Nothing sounds right. This one is too complicated. That one is too simple. ...

A Labour-Free Labour Day? Yes, Please!

Hello and Happy Labour Day to all my lovely North American readers! Now, isn’t it just a little bit ironic that a holiday with the word labour baked right into the name is universally observed by doing absolutely none of it? Zero. Zilch. Unless, of course, you count the rigorous work of flipping burgers, casting fishing lines, and chasing wasps away from the potato salad. Then yes—we are a nation of highly skilled, recreational labourers. Olympic-level loungers, really. This year, I’m wholeheartedly leaning into the contradiction. After an exceptionally busy summer filled with writing deadlines, creative misadventures, and one unfortunate incident involving a Papillon, a pie, and a squirrel (don’t ask—Pixie is still refusing to discuss it), I’m embracing the art of not doing much at all. My Labour Day weekend plans include: Reclining in my favourite chair like a dramatic Victorian heroine recovering from a fainting spell. Watching the endless activity in the harbour just outs...

The Art of a Well-Timed Swear

There comes a moment in life when frustration bubbles over, and the only logical response is… well, a good, solid, soul-cleansing swear word. I’m not talking about casual, everyday muttering under your breath. No, I mean that moment when nothing else will do. The kind of moment where dropping your toast butter-side down feels like an act of war, where technology conspires against you, or when you stub your toe so hard you briefly see your ancestors. Now, I was raised in a house where we had a rule: Use your words, not you hands. This was my dad’s way of preventing sibling-induced concussions, and frankly, it worked. We weren’t an inherently violent bunch, but three kids in one tiny household meant tempers flared, and so did elbows. The logic was simple—if you had time to yell, maybe you’d have time to think twice before swinging. Or at least give your victim a solid head start. This philosophy stayed with me, though in adulthood, I’ve adapted it to use a well-placed expletive now a...

Thinkingdog Publishing

Search This Blog