A Beginning, of a Sort

The more I write, the less sleep I get. That’s another one of those habits that’s been hard to break. I crave the near-silence of a sleeping house–but only can manage to find it at the before-bed end. I have heard about writers who get up before dawn to work before their family stirs. But I have always, always been a night owl. The house is completely quiet, and even the cats are asleep. The furnace comes on now and then, but outside even the coyotes are silent. There’s only a single dog bark...