I've never been a prima donna kind of writer. I fold personal writing into my day: dashing off a post before dawn, scribbling thoughts in my journal on Metro. I have no backyard cabin or artist's garret (I wish). The living room is my "office," and my writing time is whenever I can find it.
Still, there's never enough time. So every week or two I don't fight the early waking as much as I might. I come downstairs and grab the two hours or 90 minutes or whatever scrap of time insomnia has given me — and use it to read and write.
I might start the day a little tired, but I've filled a greater need. I've lost sleep — but I've found myself.