Before the world wakes, I coax my dreams into reality
5.30am is another land altogether.
Hello, I’m Alex. I’ve been a children’s author since 2019. In that time I’ve been shortlisted for the Waterstones Children’s Book Prize, longlisted for the Jhalak Prize and published five novels. This Substack is where I share tips, inspiration and personal stories on living a creative life. My latest novel Alyssa and the Spell Garden was published in April 2024.
A version of this piece originally appeared in Issue 44 of the (now sadly defunct) Oh Comely magazine. Back in 2018, I worked full-time as a Social Media Manager and wrote the first draft of my novel in early morning snatches. Six years later, I have just had my fifth novel published.
I’m resharing it now as an inspiration to anyone who has a dream. Magical things can happen when you combine action with intention - even if you only have fifteen minutes a day.
5.30am
It’s another land altogether. The beeps, knocks, and slams that characterise my block of flats (someone, somewhere, always has the washing machine on spin cycle) are no more. I hear the whoosh and rattle of a passing train. Perhaps distant birdsong. Purest silence is a rarity in Zone 3, except at this hour.
When I began writing my first novel, I’d open my calendar in search of time I could steal for my manuscript (sadly, writing in spurts between brunch and Netflix binges does not a novel make). I tried weekday evenings, but that was a struggle. My day job used up my energy, creativity, and desire to sit in front of a computer screen. Even if I could summon the will to type, evenings were a minefield of distraction.
And so to 5.30am, the only time I feel truly alone. I’m no longer a passive participant in my neighbour’s lives. I can forget that I live in a neat cube, hemmed in at all sides by the mess of other people.
I luxuriate in my one hour of silence filled up with nothing but the sounds I create myself: setting a mug of tea down on my desk, bursts of typing, plasticky mouse clicks. There are no distractions, no messages or emails awaiting a reply, and the temptation to do chores is minimal. Why get up at dawn to do laundry or empty the dishwasher? No, this time is for me and my story.
Once upon a time, being awake at 5.30am would only happen during sleepovers with my best friends. Fuelled by milky tea and crispy pancakes, we had painfully earnest debates about life on other planets or the existence of a spirit world. These conversations only surfaced in the twilight hours and were never spoken of again. A few years later, I’d associate the watery dawn sky of 5.30am with feet achy from dancing. Shivering in a dress sticky with spilt drinks and sweat, fatigued by the eternal voyage of the night bus.
Now, to boil the kettle and open my laptop gives this hour a new legitimacy. This portion of the day that once felt taboo is now familiar. I stake out this slice of the day for the work I care about the most. It feels like I’ve cheated the clock somehow because, as the months pass, this empty pocket of time slowly becomes a first draft.
I remember reading the marketing blurb for a personal organiser, and one phrase stuck out: “Make your dreams come true before 10am.” This was quite the sales pitch for a faux leather diary. It promised to imbue my life with passion and purpose through the purchase of stationery. Obviously, I was sold. And the quote, like all the best slogans, embedded itself into the part of my brain that embraces inspirational schmaltz.
When the alarm beeps on a miserable February morning, and there is a choice between swaddling myself in a blanket at my desk or retreating to the cotton-soft womb of my bed for one more hour, I repeat the mantra: I’m making my dreams come true before 10am.
I think the same thing when colleagues react with horror at the fact I woke up, voluntarily, at 5.30am. Sometimes, but not very often, other people confide in me. They too use the dawn hours to construct the life for themselves they truly want. Before the world awakes, we coax our dreams into reality.
Come daylight, the neighbourhood stirs. Car radios blare outside my window, sensible shoes tap against concrete and mums negotiate screaming toddlers into car seats. The four-year-old boy in the flat above crashes out of bed at 7am on the dot. My ceiling lampshade sways gently. The digital world wakes up, too. A steady influx of notifications crowds my phone screen, demanding taps and swipes. By the time I step off the cramped, hot tube train and walk to my office, it’s as though my little bit of twilight writing never happened. But it did.