I don’t remember the last time in my life when I was this busy.
It wasn’t when I started an IT consulting company and had to learn all about corporate taxation inside of a month.
It wasn’t when I wrote my dissertation.
It wasn’t when I took my first academic job in London, moved house to Abu Dhabi, packed up and moved again to Sri Lanka, or hunted for a more permanent mooring in the American South.
This is busy.
Here’s what my day looks like as a writer:
Check email while still in bed, hiding under the covers and fogging up my iThing so my night-owl husband doesn’t balk. That’s on a good day. On a bad day, I’m up at 0500 because my fingers are itching.
Wake-up time + ten minutes:
Make coffee, tea, empty dishwasher (only enough to extract the coffee/tea paraphernalia — the rest can just sit there). Maybe walk dog.
Check critiques from writing mates. Respond with thank you notes.
Start revisions. Drink more coffee (BTW, it’s all decaf. The world doesn’t need to see me on caffeine. Nicotine, on the other hand….)
The following eight hours:
Bounce ideas back and forth on Scribophile.
Write lengthy crits for writing mates.
Tweak query letter.
Draft 120-character (that’s right — character) Twitter pitches.
Research literary agents.
Send out queries, synopses, sample pages, etc.
Draft contest submissions.
Read excerpts from my novel to assure myself it isn’t total rubbish.
Plan next novel. Maybe write a scene.
Bang out a short story.
Realise I’m running low on Scribophile karma points. Critique more work.
MAYBE check Facebook.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Walk dog. Indulge in fantasies about my novel on the NYT Bestseller List.
Pour large glass of wine.
Ask husband what he wants for dinner. Smile weakly when he suggests take-away.
Head to bed with anything by Roald Dahl or Stephen King, but end up distracted by fun messages of support from writing mates.
Yep. That’s it. Every day. And you know what?
I love it.