My wife, who is retired from the work force, tends to stay up late. Most nights, I stay up later than I should through sympathetic response. Like when you drive past people outside an ice cream store licking a cone, and decide you’d like ice cream; or maybe you see someone robbing a bank and decide you should rob a bank, or maybe try your hand at armed robbery.
Even if you hear about these billionaires who never pay taxes and decide to cheat on your own taxes, which I’ve heard is a victim-less crime, I think you get my point: monkey-see, monkey-do.
Or maybe it’s just difficult to fall asleep when you can hear your spouse watching the next episode of the show you both had agreed to watch together.
“Night Owl”
My first experience staying up late wasn’t good. It was fourth grade and I had a frenemy situation going on at school and the dread of facing my tormentor the next day at school sent my brain spinning. I’d lie awake well past midnight, often going into a panic because I knew it wasn’t right, which would exacerbate the situation.
During the high school years I stayed up watching Benny Hill and other British humor shows that made their way to America—probably because they were had cheaply—and left me groggy all the next day at school.
In college it was computer programming. There were a lot of us in the computer labs late into the night, but I’m pretty sure my main problem was being ill-prepared by my high school studies to deal with computer engineering in college. Yes, I realize I probably could have done with more sleep in high school and studied more than I did, but I’m telling this story so pipe down and keep reading.
After college and before marriage, I was up late reading and writing, chasing this dream of being a writer. My day job was the obvious obstacle, and did little for my dreams except keep a roof over my head and food in my mouth.
Being a literary night owl agreed with me. I was all smug at my work table, reading great literature, tapping away at my Tandy 1400 laptop, saving short stories to my 3.5” floppy, thinking the whole time I was smarter than all those non-literary night owls watching Benny Hill and Tom Snyder late into the night.
“Smug Owl”
Once I was married and we had kids, there was no literary night owl. The night owl was up at all hours but confused and sleepy dealing with the chicks in the nest. Sleep became a rare and prized commodity, like gold, silver, or a dick joke you could tell at the office.
In a classic situation of turnabout is fair play (referring to my fourth grade insomnia) our kids messed with our sleep schedules for the next decade. Of course, I don’t remember my father ever dealing with my nocturnal issues. He just sent our mother to deal with whatever came up, saving his strength, I suppose, for an intruder of some sort, or maybe thinking about that elusive dick joke you can tell at the office.
After many years of parenting inhibiting my creativity and urge to write great literature, and feeling more frustrated than a eunuch guarding a harem, I began writing a novel late at night, after the kids were asleep, doubling down on the night owl metaphor.
Many a night I fell asleep in a chair with coffee spilled across my notebook, or my head slumping forward onto the keyboard. Suffice to say, it wasn’t as much fun as it used to be.
I went through the motions of being a writer, but I was having too much fun being a parent, coaching, watching, or transporting one kid in many sports, or chasing after the other kid’s dance, singing, and acting performances. Again, not a productive decade for my writing, and I felt more tired than ever.
I was once so sleep deprived that I told a dick joke at the office. I didn’t get fired so maybe it was okay.
“Owl Laughing at his Own Joke”
It wasn’t until the kids were old enough to drive themselves to events that I started having time to write. I’ve told y’all about those years, pretty much leading up to launching the Picayune.
Now writing is fun again, and maybe that’s the real reason why I’m up late. Although I miss the absolute wonder and potential of being a teenager staying up late at night watching naughty television shows, I’m more satisfied now pursuing my creative projects.
Or maybe I’m thinking the sun may have set but I want to be one of those people who are not yet ready to end the day.
“Me, Pretty Much Every Night”
If you’re still reading, there’s a decent chance you’re not offended by dick jokes, so here is the one I told (still tell, actually) at the office. It relies on a homophonic pun, so reading it won’t generate a guffaw. To get the full impact, I recommend you go talk to your cubicle neighbor, or a neighbor where you live, or call someone on the phone and ask:
“What’s long, hard, and full of seamen?”
The answer, which you’ll also tell them, is: “A submarine.”
Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk…
Still working on the publishing of one novel and writing a second one, while also dealing with a flood of ideas for upcoming novels.
It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a writer will have a thousand ideas for a novel they haven’t yet started writing if only to prevent them from completing the novel they are supposed to be writing.
Maybe You’d Like
I’ve joined two group promotions, today so check out these covers and grab some stories so you have something to read late into the night.
Free Short Story ThrillFest (Mystery · Thriller · Suspense) – April 2026
https://storyoriginapp.com/to/yAQropS
https://storyoriginapp.com/to/7E2x3l6
Next Picayune
I’ll be back in a couple of weeks. Until then, thanks for reading the Mickey Picayune
All the best,
Mickey
P.S. For those of you who picked up a copy of Ashley Undone recently, nothing helps like reviewing the book. It can be anywhere you’re comfortable reviewing books, and here’s a link to the Amazon page where you can do that if you don’t know anything better. (Thanks in advance.)