That Blue Hour
Almost all my writings have their beginnings in my journal, written in hours stolen from that time between dark night and daylight. I watch the deer ghost out of my garden, the last owls hunting swoop before he heads to the barn. Morning stars and the small yellow light at my elbow keep me company. Then the feed truck's motor rumbles across the yard; the phone starts ringing; the ranch wakes up. Chores and school work keep reflection on the proceedings of the universe to a minimum the rest of the day.
I have learned to write at all hours of the day and night, like Louis L'Amour who could follow the characters of a novel with his typewriter on his knees in LA traffic. But still I find the best ideas crystallize for me in that quiet time that feeds my soul, that blue hour between darkness and the dawn.