Blog 102 - Night Writer

There’s a particular kind of silence that only exists at night. Not the peaceful, cosy sort you get when you’re tucked up in bed with a book, but the deep, echoing quiet that settles over a place designed for noise. Working nights at a theme park means walking through a world that’s built for excitement, only to find it fast asleep.
Rollercoasters that usually roar with life sit frozen in the dark. Food stalls that smell of sugar and popcorn during the day become shadowy little huts. Even the air feels different — like it’s holding its breath.
Most people would find it eerie. I’ve always found it oddly comforting.
There’s something about those hours — the hum of distant generators, the soft glow of security lights, the way your footsteps sound louder than they should — that invites your mind to wander. And mine wanders like its training for a marathon. I’ve had entire conversations with myself while checking a locked gate. I’ve solved plot problems while walking past a silent coaster. I’ve even had the occasional moment of panic when I’ve manifested a character and hoped the CCTV hasn’t recorded me having a conversation with it.
But here’s the thing: the quiet hours are where my creativity lives.
When the world is busy, my brain is too. There’s always something happening — family, work, errands, the usual chaos of life. But at night, when the rides are still and the crowds are gone, my thoughts stretch out. They breathe. They wander into places they don’t usually get to visit. And that’s where stories begin.
Writing at night feels different from writing during the day. During the day, you’re aware of time. You’re aware of responsibilities. You’re aware of the fact that your partner would prefer it if you were doing something practical, like decorating or paperwork or pretending to understand how your central heating works. But at night, time gets slippery. Minutes stretch. Ideas drift in without knocking. You’re not thinking about what you should be doing — you’re thinking about what you could be creating.
That’s how I recently found myself writing something completely different from anything I’d done before.
For years, my writing life revolved around the magical worlds I created for my grandchildren. Fairies, elves, talking animals — the kind of stories that make children’s eyes go wide and adults secretly wish they still believed in magic. I loved it. I still do. There’s nothing quite like watching a child realise that a story can take them anywhere.
But writing for children is a very specific kind of joy. It’s playful. It’s whimsical. It’s full of wonder. Writing at night, though — that’s something else entirely. It’s introspective. It’s atmospheric. It’s a little bit haunted, in the best possible way.
Somewhere in those quiet hours, I realised I wanted to try something new. Not instead of the fantasy worlds I’d built, but alongside them. Something bigger. Something more complex. Something that asked different questions. Night is the perfect time to do that because that’s when the characters start showing up.
Not in a dramatic, cinematic way — no glowing portals or booming voices — but in the subtle way ideas often do. A voice here. A personality trait there. A sense of someone standing just out of sight, waiting for me to notice them. They don’t arrive all at once. They drift in, one by one, like guests at a party who aren’t sure if they’re early.
I hadn’t worked out who they were yet. I didn’t know what they wanted. But I knew they were different from the characters I’d written before. They were older. Sharper. More complicated. They carried burdens. They had histories. They had opinions — strong ones, as it turned out.
And writing them felt… exhilarating.
It also felt terrifying. Because writing something new — especially at my age, especially after years of writing in a completely different genre — feels a bit like deciding to climb a mountain because you once successfully walked up a hill. You know the basics, but suddenly the stakes feel higher. The air feels thinner. The path feels steeper.
But here’s the truth I’ve learned: creativity doesn’t care how old you are. It doesn’t care what you’ve written before. It doesn’t care whether you feel ready. It just shows up and asks, “Well? Are we doing this or not?”
Writing in those quiet hours taught me something I didn’t expect: stories don’t always arrive fully formed, and they don’t always arrive politely. Sometimes they creep in sideways. Sometimes they tap you on the shoulder when you’re halfway through a patrol. Sometimes they sit in the corner of your mind like a cat, pretending they’re not interested until suddenly they’re in your lap demanding attention.
And sometimes — if you’re lucky — they challenge you to grow.
This new story did exactly that. It pushed me out of my comfort zone. It made me rethink how I write, why I write, and what kinds of stories I’m capable of telling. It reminded me that creativity doesn’t fade with age; it just changes shape. And if you’re willing to follow it, even a little, it can take you somewhere you never expected to go.