I awoke today at 6.30 am to write once more. This marks the third day that I have done so, and I am finding the dawn hour a magical time in which to write. I sit at my desk beside my window and before the french doors that lead out into the courtyard, and by the pale and washed out luminescence of the sky I begin to work, the room dark but for the faint nacreous glow that coats the raised surface of things.

Today I wrote another 3,500 words. That is the third day in a row that I have written as much, and each day that I do so I am whittling down my word debt by another 700.

The third day of March. I had thought to be in the process of writing my third novel by now, but instead I yet work upon my second. It is at 75,000 words or so, and I believe it shall hit 90k before I am done. It shall hit 90k, and not yet be truly finished, merely the first installment after all.

This writing is a strange and grand and terrible thing. Writing in such manner, plunging heedlessly forward each morning before dawn, surging onward without premeditation or forethought has brought to light ideas and images that I had not thought myself capable of envisioning before. That no amount of planning or plotting could have conjured, that are instead summoned forth by the exigency of the moment. I feel Promethean, stealing fire from my very dreams by the dawn-light, weaving these moments into my prose such that I wonder at my very creations.

Always I have written at night, deep into the long and hollow hours past when all others have fallen asleep. But now I find myself a dawn writer, hunting down images and passages and characters as others lighten in their sleep and rise toward waking like divers floating up toward the surface of the sea. It is an auspicious time, and I am profiting greatly by it.

Enough. The day begins. I must leave my desk and turn my thoughts to the quotidian.