Dick didn't keep the gentleman's morning schedule you find in a lot of writer profiles. His routine was nocturnal, intense, and for years chemically assisted.

The Direct Answer
Long night sessions, often typing until around four in the morning.
Fueled through the 1960s by scotch and amphetamines, by his own accounts in interviews.

A Nocturnal Machine

The picture that comes down from friends and biographers is consistent. Dick worked deep into the night, hammering the typewriter until roughly four in the morning, with scotch and prescription uppers close at hand. He composed as he typed rather than planning first, so a good night could carry a book a long way forward. The rhythm wasn't a tidy daily quota. It ran closer to marathon stretches, a novel poured out over a couple of near-sleepless weeks, then a crash and a pause.

Music ran underneath a lot of it. Dick had a deep love of classical music, had run a record store, and once programmed classical broadcasts for a local radio station, and that world stayed with him at the typewriter. The nights were long and the sleep was thin. He'd push a session until the story ran out or his body did, then surface, deal with the wreckage of ordinary life, and go back down again.

That pattern produced staggering results and exacted a real toll. His most concentrated run came in 1963 and 1964, when by several accounts he wrote eleven novels. There's more on that engine in the full Philip K. Dick writing routine.

The Speed Behind the Schedule

The amphetamines weren't incidental to the routine. They were part of it, and the record is clear. Dick said he wrote every book published before 1970 while using speed. He later tried to downplay the effect, claiming doctors had told him his body processed the drug before it reached his brain, yet the reliance was real and it fed the all-night sessions. The habit ran alongside the poverty and the failing health that shadowed his later years.

A Scanner Darkly was the first complete novel I had written without speed.

Philip K. Dick, Rolling Stone, 1975

The routine changed as he aged. By the 1970s, settled in Southern California, the frantic all-night pace of the speed years had cost him too much to keep up, and his later books came more slowly and more soberly. The method that filled the shelves in his thirties was the same one that left him worn out and often broke by his forties.

That line marks a turn. A Scanner Darkly, his novel about addiction and the damage it does, was the first he wrote clean, and it reads like a reckoning with the years behind him. He died in 1982 at 53.

What You Can Steal