In an ideal world, this would be my writing day:
I awaken to the view of a fantastic sunrise over the ocean, from my tempurpedic bed, with freshly-washed sheet (dried on a clothesline). I sing as I wander through the perfectly clean house, accompanied by cartoon birds and chipmunks, ending up in the kitchen where an extra-sharp cheddar and bacon omelet awaits. After a five-minute workout that burns 2,000 calories, I shower and dress in a cashmere t-shirt and shorts and sit down in my Stressless easy chair to write.
Do I even need to mention that the words flow from my fingertips and I weep at my cleverness? After two hours, I've produced 50 pages of work an editor would not dare to change. For the rest of the day, I sit on the beach with my new best friends - Libba Bray and Tina Fey - while George Clooney serves us cocktails...shirtless.
And this is where you, dear reader, remind me that I am, in fact, a writer of fiction...aka - a liar. Here is the real story:
I awaken to an alarm clock that gets lourder each time I hit the snooze button - which means it is now shattering the windows. I step in a hairball coughed up by the cat. Then I twist an ankle, stepping on one of the many shoes I am too lazy to pick up off the floor. Real animals - in the form of pets - follow me around the house, nagging me to feed them. I work out on the treadmill for half an hour and sweat like a fat man in Death Valley at noon - only to discover I've only burned 10 calories. I take a shower and put on whatever is clean. The dogs now want to go outside, just as I start writing, and once out - want back in. If I don't comply, they bark loudly at any person, squirrel or leaf stupid enough to walk within a mile of our house. I try to wake the kids - which is as much fun as shaving my legs with broken glass. I check my email. I check my Facebook. I begin, at last, to write. Eight hours later, I have ten pages of pure crap. I open a bottle of wine and watch Leverage. I go to bed. Then I wake up because I forgot to make the kids go to bed, and go back to bed.
Okay, it isn't like that ALL the time. And if I had a perfect day all the time - my writing probably wouldn't be funny. Right? Yes. That's it. I'm sure of it.
George Clooney, shirtless and serving me cocktails would be nice though...