A Day in the Life of.....
This is where us bloggers & fans get a glimpse inside the days of our favorite authors!
So here’s the thing. I love to write about fictional people, but I feel very uncomfortable writing about myself. So let’s dispense with the biography and I’ll tell you a story. And everyone knows that all the best stories start with . . .
Once upon a time there was a little girl who walked around with her head in the clouds. While the other kids paid attention to the world around them, this little girl (For clarity’s sake, let’s just call her Katie.) spent her days dreaming. The dreams varied. One day Katie might be a princess who was rescued by a prince on a three-legged horse (Perfection can be so boring.), and the next day she might find herself as an overworked mother of ten. (Mothers are wonderful heroines, don’t you agree?) This playacting was acceptable when Katie was little, but as she grew older, people started to take notice and think her a little odd. (Odd? What’s odd about a tall, skinny seventh grader pushing an overfilled doll stroller down the street?)
Luckily for her social standing, Katie gave up the play-stage for the written-page, spending hours writing down her daydreams in a spiral notebook. But over the years, her storytelling took a backseat to hormones and high school, and it wasn’t until her two exceptional daughters were grown (Ten seemed a little redundant after the first labor pain) that she returned to writing.
Now Katie spends her days at a computer daydreaming, while the rest of the time she enjoys hanging with her family, reading, going to the gym, playing golf, motorcycle riding, traveling, or just snuggling next to her snoring prince. (Snoring might seem like a minor imperfection when compared to a three-legged horse, but believe me it’s not) Because if the little girl of the clouds learned anything over the years, it was that every moment in life is a happily-ever-after just waiting to be fulfilled.
5:15am—I wake up and look at the clock and think “Are you kidding me?” I try to go back to sleep, but at this point, the story I’m working on pops into my head and won’t go away. So I lay there and go over what my characters are going to do that day until . . . my bladder can’t take it anymore and forces me to get up.
6:30am—I go to the gym where I try not to sweat by chatting with my gym-rat friends and going for drinks at the water fountain.
8:00am—I eat breakfast. Now, this can vary depending on my mood. If I’m happy and feeling like I have the world by the tail, I will make myself an over-medium egg and a slice of whole-grain toast with tons of butter and blackberry jam. If I’m feeling grumpy and fat, I eat a bowl of plain oatmeal.
8:30am—I take a quick shower and get dressed in my work uniform of sweats and old slippers.
9:00am—I do promotion and business stuff. I get giveaways ready to mail, answer emails, Facebook, blog, and Twitter. For some reason, this takes most of the morning. (And I promise that it has nothing to do with the pair of pretty red shoes that flash up on my Internet home page.)
12:00pm—I eat whatever I can find in the refrigerator that won’t take a long time to fix because now I’m mad at myself for getting sucked into the whole shoe-shopping thing. Especially when I spend most of the day in slippers. Usually, my lunch has something to do with peanut butter—PB and crackers, PB and apples, PB and toast.
12:30pm—I start writing. Well, first I have to adjust the pillow behind my back, and then my socks are bothering me so I need to go get on another pair, and then my dad calls and I have to answer it because he’s eighty-seven. And then I need a cup of tea, and then . . .
1:00pm—I really start to write. I mean, really. And I write until my husband gets home for dinner.
6:30pm—Uh, oh. I didn’t plan dinner, and Hubba doesn’t like peanut butter. (At least, not for dinner.) So I scurry about, thawing out hamburger and praying we have buns.
7:30pm—I love this part of my day because, if I don’t have blogs or newsletters to write, I get to read for as long as I want. Ten . . . eleven . . . midnight.