My writing routine

(how I balance a full-time job whilst writing and editing 2 books)

Writing, depending on how slow you are (snail’s pace, for moi) can consume your life. You think about it/yourself way too much. WAY too much. You hate it when people ask, ‘how’s the book going?’ but feel offended when they don’t. You write four words one day and think your career is over, and then the next day churn out a piece so inanely inorganic and dull that you know your career is over. You start 47 other creative projects as your deadline looms nearer. You have daily crisis about your ability to write. To live is, after all, to suffer.

So with all that in mind, I’m sharing my writing routine with you all, in case it is at all helpful.

Saturday, 3 am:

I wake up clammy, having just had a dream where a future book of mine came out and it was such a flop that my agent and editor called a meeting, which turned out to be a secret instagram live where they fired me in front of all my friends. I lie awake for 45 minutes wondering if I am predicting the future.

6 am:

My alarm goes off. This is the alarm I set the night before at 11:57, telling myself I would definitely, definitely get up this time. It’s dark outside. I have been pulled from the deep depths of slumber and am immediately enraged. It is in this moment, as I scramble to find my phone, that I remember my commitment to never waking up before the sunrise. The alarm is reset for a more reasonable time of 8:30.

8:30 am:

Snooze for 15 minutes

8:45 am:

Snooze for 15 minutes

9:00 am:

Snooze for 15 minutes

9:15 am:

Snooze for 15 minutes

9:30 am:

My partner loses his temper (weird, uncalled for) and tells me to turn the fucking alarm off. I scroll on Instagram for a bit and read half a newsletter. I begin the mental preparation it requires to sit down and write for unbroken hours at a time. This starts with me thinking about how far I have to go (29 chapters) and what I like about my work so far (nothing). I spend a few happy minutes questioning my choices in life and then - my favourite part - I set my intentions for the day. Today’s intentions are:

• write two chapters

• be happy

10:45 am:

I sit down to write at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee in my hand. Before I can start though, I obviously have to read the news. I can't write if my brain isn’t fired up! The news is very bad. I read about politics and climate change and immediately worry about the future. I read about a celebrity death and watch a fifteen minute montage of their best work. A second mug of coffee is made - and now I’m hungry. Toast, with dulce de leche. I flirt with the possibility of a third coffee. Ok. Now I’m ready.

Noon

The thing is, I really did make a start - I wrote a few sentences - but then, I remembered I have emails I need to address. I’ve been meaning to do them all week but things have been too busy, so I fire off a few quickly. This is good - this productive feeling is exactly what I need. And look, a sample sale at one of my favourite brands! This must be fate - I’ve just been paid. Sure, I’m meant to be saving, but I’m a writer for god’s sake, I deserve a treat for working into the evenings and weekends. I buy seventeen pairs of snakeskin boots. You never know when you will need a pair of snakeskin boots. There is something very shiny about the leather that draws me in. I get so close to the screen, my nose is about to touch it, and it will make that funny, colour-flecked splatter on the screen. I imagine licking the screen - it doesn’t feel too hot. Maybe I -

A sneeze from my partner makes me jump. I leap back from the laptop and blink rapidly. Probably best not to think about what just happened. A little stretch, some water - it’s important to stay hydrated - and we’re good to go.

12:07 pm:

My seventh wee of the day. Feels excessive, tbh. Throat’s feeling kinda dry, so, more water.

12:08 pm:

Ok, I’m on a roll. Four sentences - that’s pretty good actually. At this rate there’s every chance I’ll hit my 2 chapter target.

12:85 pm:

Gym time! It’s so important to keep your body strong if you want to sit and write all day, like I have. Necks tense, shoulders hunch, wrists twist - there’s a high rate of writer-related injuries these days. A friend of mine has carpal tunnel - nasty stuff. I walk to the gym and lift a few weights. Toss a few 200 pound kettle bells around (I am very strong). After an hour I am so ready to head back and write - my brain is literally bursting with inspiration. Funny thing though - on the way home, I notice my jumper is covered with silvery little scales. That’s strange. It seems to be coming from my neck, which, is a little perturbing. But the show must go on, I have an urgent, severe need to sit down at start typing. My brain is a many-holed sieve, and once the good ideas start flowing, I have to capture them before they trickle down to m-

12:34 pm:

More water. sip sip sip.

12:34 pm:

test the air. sniff sniff sniff.

12:45 pm:

Gotta shower, else the sweat will give me bum acne. As I step into the tub, more and more scales start to fall from my body, flaking down to my bony feet. Kinda weird. Kinda hot. I’m feeling very flushed. Skin very itchy. Sometimes this happens after the gym? Maybe?

2:00 pm:

My partner makes us spaghetti aglio olio. It’s great, but just missing some sort of crunch. A spindly leg or two - a handful of insects thrown in would have been perfect. I have no way to prove this but the wings of a dragonfly taste like sugarcane and mint juleps. I wish I had a few to suck on after lunch, to be honest. I mention this and my partner is bemused. He asks me if this is part of the novel - I have no idea what he’s talking about.

4:56 pm:

I have made some progress - the inbox is cleared for the first time since 2019 - how excellent is that?! My skin is getting itchier and more flakier, and I have tried to distract myself by really honing in on this chapter. This is a pivotal scene I’m writing - there’s lots of dialogue which I am famously quite bad at. I alternate between staring into space and tapping out a few lines - this is a key part of the process. You can’t rush these things you know, it takes as long as it takes. As I wait for inspiration to strike, I look up a few Buzzfeed articles. Take a test to see what kind of autumn pumpkin I am. Refresh the inbox.

4:65 pm:

I taste the air with my tongue. I can smell the breath of a spider through the walls. Have you ever felt like your legs are too long for your body?

6:00 pm:

I start to pull of old, dead skin from my thighs with pleasure. It feels great - like unpeeling a pair of too-tight trousers from your legs. I feel my limbs stretch, pop, and twist, webbing blooming between each finger. I feel my skull shrink back into my head, eyes bulging open until the world is 360. I keep writing - I’m on the cusp of something big.

11:00 pm:

Ok, I’ve been writing for ages now. I pomodoro technique-d it, banging out three pages in three hours. I think a quick break will do wonders for my brain, so I lie on the sofa and use my tongue to scroll on Instagram. My skin is still peeling off, fresh, apple green skin now peeking through underneath. Just a bit long, and I’ll get back to that chapter. I watch videos of cats doing odd things and a deep and profound dread strikes my heart. These creatures are monsters, their teeth and claws are weapons of mass destruction against my kind. I am shocked and disgusted by their unchecked proliferation on social media. An idea for a book strikes me: what if all the cats in the world turned into humans over night, and became a menace to society? And the humans had to go hunting for them, to figure out who was a human and who was a cat, pretending to be a human? I write it down, I write it down. This is political.

8:0060 pm

I have fully shed my skin by now - relief! I am she, the Lizard Queen! My tongue has a mind of her own. How glorious, how unusual.

9:75 pm

I pad about the flat, marvelling at how dirty the floor is. There’s a dead moth in the corner, I can smell his dried blood from here. He’s been dead two days - a bit too stale for my taste. My claws skitter a little on the slick wooden surfaces. To my delight, I discover I can climb directly up surfaces - this is very useful! I can’t remember where I left my laptop, so it takes a while, but I find it on top of the fridge, screen half closed. Nudging it open with my nose, I nuzzle the mousepad until the machine lights up. Fuck me, it’s bright. No matter - I can dim the screen and continue working on my magnum opus. I look at the word doc, and I look at the keypad, and they both seem kinda strange looking. Someone has replaced all the buttons with gibberish symbols, someone has control-selected the day’s work and turned it into Webdings! It must be my partner telling me to rest for the day, the silly little cricket.

00191:7 pm:

The letter S i not real. Unrecogniable to my brain. All other alphabet letter looking omewhat familiar, but not ssssssssßßßß. I eat a bug hiding behind the ofa. Fucking deliciou.

00000 pm:

There are fewer things I love more than eating fresh bugs and writing books. Today was spectacular. I have eaten and written, written and eaten. At this rate, my book will be finished in a week! I decide to take a quick break. Nap on the sofa. Curled up, head tucked between tail. Sometimes serpents will eat their own tails when they suffer from stress-related psychological disorders. Could never be me.

What is time, but a flat circle?

Funny story - I think I’ve got an idea for another book! It’s about a woman who is trying to write two books at once whilst also in a full time job, and who suffers from insomnia and chronic pain, and her slow descent into clinical insanity, as she begins to experience psychosis and thinks she’s a lizard. Unsure at present where this story will culminate. I think I will just write and see where it goes. My limbs feel a bit sore from all the weight training from earlier, so I will wait until they can move properly again before I start typing. I compose my magnum opus - my real magum opus - in my head. Some man makes a sound that seems vaguely familiar. Stirs up a memory of something - wait! He’s picking me up! Unhand me, you villain! He’s saying “bed” and “time”. No idea what any of it means, but I will say that this place I have been set down upon is mighty soft and wide. I can stretch out my aching limbs and tired brain and drift off into sleep. This man has lain down next to me and turned off the lights. I can see well in the dark, his eyes are closed, his chest rises and falls. How fascinating. I need to get my beauty sleep too, I suppose, tomorrow will be a long, intense day of writing, after all. I decide to do some intention setting:

• write three chapters

• be happy

• rise at 6 am to make the most of your day

A quick favour. I love writing these posts, and I intend to do them for free for as long as I can. If you enjoyed reading this, forward it to a friend (or three) who you think might like it too. It helps massively, because validation from strangers is truly the only thing that makes the horrors bearable for me.

PS: If you spotted a typo, no you didn’t.