{"id":3849,"date":"2026-04-17T07:00:00","date_gmt":"2026-04-17T05:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.katjarestovic.com\/?p=3849"},"modified":"2026-03-13T11:54:59","modified_gmt":"2026-03-13T10:54:59","slug":"what-one-writing-day-looks-like","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.katjarestovic.com\/en\/coffee2go\/what-one-writing-day-looks-like\/","title":{"rendered":"What One Writing Day Looks Like"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Unfortunately \u2014 or fortunately \u2014 my writing day begins at night. I don\u2019t plan it. I don\u2019t sit down and say, \u201cNow I will write.\u201d It happens. It\u2019s as if someone quietly knocks. And if I open that door \u2014 it\u2019s over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I am in that state, I write day and night. I forget about time. About food. About messages. About everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s why I\u2019m often amused \u2014 and sometimes slightly irritated \u2014 when someone calls me at 8 a.m. Or even better, when someone rings my doorbell without warning. It\u2019s usually the postman. Or a random passerby selling something or asking for something.<\/p>\n\n\n

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And there I am, standing at the door, hair messy, still in my pajamas, trying to explain that my working hours are at night. I find myself justifying it and feeling slightly uncomfortable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How do you explain to someone that you sleep only four or five hours, but your entire schedule is simply shifted? That your rhythm is different from most people\u2019s?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s difficult. People don\u2019t really understand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Night is also my time for editing \u2014 for anything that requires silence and focus.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

During the day, I have phone calls, obligations, meetings, arrangements. The day belongs to the world. The night belongs to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I usually start working around ten or eleven in the evening. I write until six, sometimes seven in the morning. Then I sleep for four, maybe five hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And somehow, I always feel like I owe someone an explanation for that. As if working at night were an odd habit rather than my natural rhythm. So I often say with a smile: I work the night shift \u2014 it makes it easier for people to accept. But I don\u2019t know how to work any other way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


My favorite moment is when I open my laptop. That emptiness that doesn\u2019t threaten \u2014 it invites. The words find me. I don\u2019t go back to what I\u2019ve written. I don\u2019t analyze. I just move forward. I write and write and write. As if I\u2019m catching something that might disappear if I pause. Later, I edit. I connect. I cut. I add.

It\u2019s the same when I edit films.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I have my own studio at home, where I edit all my music videos and documentaries. Because editing, for me, is not technical work. It\u2019s directing. It is the most important part of creation.<\/p>\n\n\n

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I direct while I edit. I direct while I write. Even on set, while looking at the monitor \u2014 that\u2019s my role in the field \u2014 I am already editing in my head, even as I announce the next scenes we need to shoot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And when I hit a block \u2014 and of course I do \u2014 I get into the car and drive. Then I turn the entire scene over from five or six different perspectives.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What if he says this?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What if she stays silent?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What does that mean for the next chapter?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For the next novel?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For the third?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If she leaves now \u2014 how will she return? What will she say?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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When I was writing the trilogy, I knew that if I placed something in the first part, I had to know exactly how it would unfold in the second and how it would end in the third.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is, in fact, a very obsessive job. And a beautiful one. Because writing is atmosphere.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

While I was writing The Black Oath, the story took place in a deep autumn in Tara. Fog. Dampness. Weight in the air. And I felt it physically. Summer arrived \u2014 and I still felt moisture in my bones. As if I were living inside that fog. As if my body had absorbed the climate of the novel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Until I released it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It took time to return to reality. I wrote seven short stories in a row, slowly detaching myself from that world. It felt like coming off an addiction. Like carefully stepping out of a reality you created yourself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I write, nothing exists except coffee and silence. The phone is off. The door is closed. The world is muted. Writing is not a job for me. It is rhythm. Passion. Breathing. I don\u2019t force myself to write \u2014 writing, perhaps, forces me. When I finish, I simply collapse into bed. I sleep little, and restlessly. Because I can\u2019t wait to continue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

During breaks, I get into the car, grab my coffee to go, open the window and let oxygen and nature in. And the same feeling always comes over me: complete release. It is incredible how every written sentence feels like a fragment of freedom. That\u2019s why I return. Again and again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s more or less what my day looks like. Or night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I write, I don\u2019t snack. I don\u2019t eat. I simply breathe and write. It\u2019s hard to socialize in those moments because, naturally, my friends don\u2019t fully understand the state I\u2019m in. So I isolate myself.

Yes, I am obsessive. Intense. Passionate. And completely my own.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I always write in the same place \u2014 in my comfortable armchair, with the laptop on my knees. Next to me there is always a glass of water or lemonade, hand cream, and the perfume I love \u2014 Davidoff Cool Water.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is always interesting when someone tries to pull me back into reality while I\u2019m writing. It\u2019s hard for me to start an ordinary conversation because I\u2019m not really \u201cthere.\u201d I\u2019m fully inside. I remember once sitting with a friend. She was talking, asking me questions, and I felt as if I were living a parallel life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At one point she looked at me and said, \u201cWhat are you thinking about right now? Where are you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I replied, \u201cSorry. I\u2019m in a scene.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She was fascinated. \u201cWhat kind of scene?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And how do you explain to someone everything you\u2019re feeling in that moment? It\u2019s difficult. And besides, writing changes. The very next night that scene may be gone, replaced by something entirely new.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


My scenes always have a scent. They have food. Glasses on a table. Moisture in the air. The sound of cutlery. Atmosphere you can touch. Food has always been important to me. In life and in writing. I was never drawn to crowds, bars, or nightclubs. I wanted to hear who was speaking and what they were saying. My worlds were built at home. Board games. Gatherings. Tuna p\u00e2t\u00e9. Pancakes with Nutella. People came to my place because they knew things would be simple, clear, concrete \u2014 and there would be food. Who doesn\u2019t love tuna p\u00e2t\u00e9 and pancakes with Nutella?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I remember one of my gatherings at the top of a high-rise building in Rijeka, in my apartment. I affectionately call it \u201cThe Loft,\u201d because it\u2019s neither in the sky nor on the ground.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There were many unfamiliar people. Voices. Laughter. Strange combinations of personalities. And I stood there, serving, observing \u2014 yet at the same time entirely inside my own internal film. I am always both hostess and observer. Participant and author. I enjoy those social encounters. I love meeting new people \u2014 not all of them \u2014 but those who are different or creative immediately intrigue me. I want to explore them. Their lives. Their perspectives.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Something similar happened recently. I was writing all weekend when a friend came from Belgrade to stay with me. I told him, \u201cPlease don\u2019t. I\u2019m working. I won\u2019t be able to give you attention.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He replied, \u201cYou just work. I\u2019ll read. It\u2019s enough that we\u2019re together.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t disturb me. But I couldn\u2019t relax. I felt the need to organize an outing, to go to Motovun, to walk, to be a good host.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We went. We talked. We analyzed my older novels. He said they were perfect airplane books \u2014 the kind you read in one breath. He writes too. He\u2019s an excellent journalist. He understood the process.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I was simply waiting to return home. To sit down. To continue. Everything else felt temporary.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


My sister is one of the rare people who truly understands this state. During those intense creative periods, we speak every day. As if we\u2019re having coffee together. As if she grounds me. She once even came earlier than planned, just to be beside me \u2014 to feed me with real food and with reality. She worries about me in those moments. But she understands. She supports me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s hard to explain this process. When I write, I don\u2019t imagine atmosphere \u2014 I feel it. If it\u2019s foggy, I feel moisture in my bones. If it\u2019s sunny, my skin warms. If it\u2019s raining, I hear it in the windows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maybe these anecdotes aren\u2019t important. Maybe what matters is that writing has never been a job for me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is simply a state. A kind of parallel life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maybe it\u2019s not a conventional life. But it\u2019s mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

See you over coffee!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Unfortunately \u2014 or fortunately \u2014 my writing day begins at night. I don\u2019t plan it. I don\u2019t sit down and say, \u201cNow I will write.\u201d It happens. It\u2019s as if someone quietly knocks. And if I open that door \u2014 it\u2019s over. When I am in that state, I write day and night. I forget […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":4367,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[70],"tags":[],"class_list":{"0":"post-3849","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-coffee2go"},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3849","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3849"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3849\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3852,"href":"https:\/\/www.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3849\/revisions\/3852"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/4367"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3849"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3849"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.katjarestovic.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3849"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}