When I was asked to write a day in the life of me, I snorted at the email.
With This Man
Because, honestly, it’s really nothing to write home about. Pardon the pun. I would like to tell you that I’m organised. I’m not. I would like to tell you that my schedule is meticulous. It’s not. I’m aware that many writers are nocturnal creatures. I’m not. I’m at the mercy of my mind. I can’t plan my writing schedule; my brain just doesn’t work that way. The words never seem to be flowing when I want them to flow. I’ve tried and failed to gain some structure in my life.
I’m an early riser. Long gone are the days when I had to be up at the crack of dawn to get children sorted for school and do all of my household chores before I left the house for work. Yet my body has never cottoned onto that little newfound luxury. Every morning at 6am, ding! An internal alarm goes off. From the moment I wake up, my mind is whirling. I’m thinking about where I left off on a current work in progress, where I’m at in an edit, or about notes I’ve received from my editor. Ideally, I would push all of my creativeness back until it’s convenient for me to get it all down on paper. I want a shower before I land at my desk. A coffee, time to run through social media and have some time with my assistant so she can fill me in on what’s happening while I’ve been lost in my fictional worlds. Brain doesn’t play ball. So I shower, repeating everything in my mind, scared to death I’m going to forget it all. I tell Alexa sometimes. She never lets me forget. God bless Alexa. She’s dotted around my house waiting to take notes for me.
Sometimes my assistant takes one look at me when she arrives at the office and walks away, because she knows nothing she tells me will sink in. When I finally make it to my desk, I’ll work like a Trojan, my fingers trying to keep up with my brain. But there always comes a point during the day when it just…stops. That’s my cue to take the dog for a walk, to get some fresh air and to clear my head. It usually jumpstarts my mind.
Back at my office, it’s afternoon and New York is now awake. Which means I have to dedicate a little time to answering emails from my agent and publisher. Come 6pm, I sort dinner. I eat. If more words come, I’m back at my desk for the evening. Switching off has always been a problem for me. The smallest things can trigger something. I can be anywhere, anytime, which is why my journal is always at hand to take those important notes. People (mainly my mother and my agent) tell me to chill out. Relax. Have a break. They tell me that I work too much. But is it really working when you love it so much? Truth is, I’m at my most relaxed when I’m writing. I don’t see it as work. Maybe one day if the words stop flowing, I’ll look into yoga as a relaxing alternative.