In Which Writing is Like Driving Through the Night

Early Morning Back Road Drive by Nathan Katz

It is so cold this morning that when the wind races through the leafless sycamores, the ends of the branches rattle together, stiff, like thin bones. A wave of gray clouds sweeps in from the northwest. Even Winnie, when I take her out, sniffs hesitantly at the brittle grass, does her business quickly, and then darts back for the door.

The kids go out to catch the bus—first our Middles, then our Littles, wrapped in layers, hoods up, eager to board the warm bus. I watch them walk away with Maile while the brittle, brown leaves make scraping sounds as the wind drags them along the road. Make no mistake: it is still November, but winter has arrived.

And yet even on this stark, cold morning, there is beauty to be found. An unexpected batch of flurries sweep past the window, frozen, scurrying along the deck rails, perching in among the grass. They come and go, not nearly enough to form a layer on the ground, but still a kind of reminder: Advent is here, Christmas is coming. There is a Light.

And after the flurries pass through, the clouds sweep away, and sky turns an icy blue, the color of something cold and new and even hopeful.

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We came home from our East Tennessee Thanksgiving, leaving Maile’s parents’ house around 9 p.m., driving through the night. There is a very particular sensation that comes when we make the trip at that time of night, the buzz of setting out, the dimming of excitement as the late hours of 10, 11, and midnight come and go. The kids all settle into the quiet. There is the middle-of-the-night stop to fill up with gas at a deserted station, where the overly bright white lights create an empty stage and the shadows watch. I let Winnie out of the car and walk her on the small islands of grass. She stretches her legs, and when I tell her to get back in the car, she looks at me with skepticism. Seriously?

There are the non-hours: 2 o’clock, 3 o’clock, 4 o’clock in the morning, with almost no other cars on the road, and a highway that goes on and on into the night, on and on into something like a waking dream.

There is the hint of light, and then the sun rising at 6. There is, finally, home, and a warm bed, and a sleep that feels heavy, like a potion.

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Last night, one day after driving through the night, I dropped off our middle son at basketball, and because the school hallways were dark and there was nowhere to sit, I drove to a coffee shop to wait and to write. Yes, I’ve returned to fiction, finally, and the story is peeling itself layer by layer in front of me, the center revealing things I never could have planned. I wrote for a little over an hour, 2,000 words. Some will work. Most will need help. Much will be deleted.

These days, writing fiction feels like driving through the non-hours of the night. There is the occasional sense of lost-ness, the pulling off the road and trying to refuel, the unnatural quiet, the loneliness of a never-ending highway.

Will this night go on forever? Will the morning never come?

But, on good writing days, there is also that 5 a.m. feeling, the realization that the sky is beginning to lighten, that the sun is going to rise again.

There is a Light. I guess that’s what I’m trying to say. And writing is the vehicle that ushers me through the darkness.

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What gets you through the dark days?