My writer’s club meets the second and fourth Wednesday of every month. For years and years and eons, we’ve met from 12:30 to 2:30. In the early years, people rotated bringing snacks and a coffee urn for each meeting, but that started to become a burden, so we dropped the goodies and started going out to eat when the meeting ended instead. That’s fun because then we get to yak. Sometimes, we talk writing. Sometimes, we gossip. But it’s always fun to hang out with fellow writers.
Last year, though, when the library reopened its meeting room after Covid, another group had already signed up for the room and bumped our time slot to 30 minutes later. Now, we meet from 1:00 to 3:00, only a half hour difference. but it’s thrown my rhythm off more than I expected. It’s made everything feel a lot later somehow.
I don’t have to leave the house until twelve thirty, so I don’t feel as pressured to run around getting everything ready in the morning. I can sit at my computer and squeeze in some writing, besides just looking at my email and twitter. That’s a good thing, except it lets me get immersed in my work. Then it’s harder for me to shift gears and think about editing and not creating.
Even though I eat a peanut butter sandwich before I leave, I’m starving by three o’clock. (HH would tell you that I starve a lot. I usually amble to the kitchen by three or three thirty every day for a snack). On Scribes’ day, though, I order wings or a sandwich instead of munching on cashews. Only now, it’s close to four by the time I eat, so I’m not in the mood for a light supper until at least seven, sometimes later. I’ve tried to skip supper altogether, but then I’m starving (again) before bedtime.
So, I remind myself. It’s only a half hour difference. But it’s thrown off my usual rhythm. I’ll get used to it. And then I might even like it better. I just never realized I was such a creature of habit, and now I know the truth. I must be. So instead of fussing about the change, I need to embrace it. And I will. Eventually.