Why Sleep When You Can Write?

Middle of the Bay, middle of the night, where creative thought appears as an uninvited but welcome friend.

My View at Sunset

It’s 1:22 a.m., and I’m awake, not by accident. This happens often.

I’m alone on my sailboat in the middle of Buren Bay, tucked into a remote corner of a remote island, no traffic, no late-night shops, and no one to interrupt my thoughts, which is probably why they show up.

I’d gone to bed early, as usual. But I was woken by a phrase, a single line that belonged in the next chapter of my book. I obeyed the prompt, opened my laptop, and wrote.

When I finished, I noticed an article in my inbox from one of my favorite columnists, Oliver Burkeman. He was writing about aliveness, a quality different from just being alive. The kind that makes you pay attention.

That’s precisely what I felt, reading his words, then looking out at the still water, under a setting moon, with only a light breeze and the occasional creak from the rigging to keep me company.

I’ve come to realize that for me, that sense of being fully alive, engaged, doesn’t always arrive during daylight hours. It often comes in the hush of night, after a few hours’ rest, when the world is quiet enough to let ideas slip through. That’s why, more often than not, I write after midnight.

Tonight, I wrote a full chapter. Not planned. But the words came, and I followed.

Being moored alone in a remote bay, with no dock neighbours and only the slow pivot of the boat, helps. Out here, things can breathe. Including thoughts.

This isn’t about productivity. It’s about permission, to pause, to pay attention, to follow a thought wherever it leads.

The aliveness I’m chasing on this journey isn’t found in adrenaline or checklists. It lives in moments like this. At 1:22 a.m. On a boat. On a bay. With a pen in hand.

When do your best thoughts tend to show up? And are you listening when they do?