The Late-Night Rewrite

[Editor’s note: Had myself a busy end-of-week, so I’m keeping things simple today. And I surely appreciate all the kind words about “Still Available,” Y’all are good to me.]

I’ve always loved mornings. Still do. But lately—now that I’m retired—I’ve discovered a different kind of writing hour: the holy hush of midnight…

It didn’t start intentionally. A line would drift in while brushing my teeth, or I’d roll over with some half-formed thought still bouncing around from earlier. For a while, I ignored it. Figured I’d remember in the morning. I never did.

So I started giving in.

I’d slip out of bed, careful not to wake my wife, and shuffle to the dim glow of the computer in my study. I’d sit in PJs, feet bare on carpet, and try to catch the line before it vanished.

Sometimes it was just one sentence. Other times, it was a rewrite that had been waiting patiently all day—just needed quiet to emerge. There’s something different about writing when the world is asleep. No notifications. No to-do lists. Just space. Breath. Silence.

A couple of weeks ago, one of those nights hit hard. I had a full draft of a post already saved—cleaned up, readable, even formatted. But it didn’t feel right. I couldn’t shake it. Around 11:40, I gave up trying to sleep and opened the file again.

And I gutted it.

Paragraph by paragraph, I pulled the thread until the whole thing unraveled and reformed. By 1:12 a.m., I was staring at something new. Same bones, different soul. That post went live the next day, and more than a few of you took a look at it. Thank you for that. You didn’t know you were reading something born in the dark.

I say all this not to make midnight sound romantic. Most nights I still sleep just fine. But every now and then, the Spirit taps your shoulder at an inconvenient hour. And when that happens, I’m learning to say yes.

Retirement has given me something I didn’t expect: unhurried permission to create when the time is right—even if that time is 12:42 a.m. with bad posture and a bottled water by my side.

So if you ever wonder how some of these posts come to be, just picture an old guy in his PJs, typing by desk light while the house settles into that quiet only night can teach you to hear.

(Or maybe not; kinda scary when I think about it.)