It’s glamorous and muddy, glorious and confusing. My office might look like this:
Or it might look like this:
Receiving my own books in the mail is always a stunning surprise and an adventure.
It never, never, never gets old.
Sometimes I sleep for 6 hours. Sometimes I sleep for 12 hours. I still get up and make lunches and go to my day job.
I still grocery shop and buy clothes that looked good in the dressing room but awful when I got home.
Bathing suit shopping makes me scream in frustration.
Most of the time I can’t find my phone or my wallet or my shoes. My house is in shambles.
I talk to myself in the shower, and sometimes I borrow my boy-child’s shower crayons.
Sometimes my strange Scatter-Cat gets in the tub. Silly cat.
Occasionally my muse (who I have recently named Alejandro, and who looks like this lovely gentleman) is stubborn, but sometimes he gifts me with a flash of brilliance.
But I still forget laundry in the washer for two days. My house looks like Armageddon.
(Too bad Ben isn’t there… except I’d have to fight Liz and I’d lose!)
In short, us writers are crazy, bonkers, inspired, creative, loving, irritating and generally NORMAL.
Except that we hear voices in our heads.
Don’t hold that against us.