“In every man’s writings, the character of the writer must lie recorded.”
- Thomas Carlyle
Writing full-time demands a routine of sorts. Most mornings I’m up with the birds, dressed, breakfasted, and enlightened and/or disheartened from reading the paper. The Business Guy and the RT are out the door by 8:30, at which time I attend to my correspondences. A few mornings a week I trot off to the gym to get some blood swishing around my brain cells; otherwise I am at my desk at 9:00, ready for work.
Work consists of a variety of writing-related things, none of them terribly interesting. Depending on which pot is bubbling the loudest, I’ll write some new fiction, prepare submissions, or perhaps rework a passage and remove a comma, only to stare at it awhile before putting it back in.
I might swear at the cat, who is cute-but-needy, and who spends far too much time seething around my lap/desk/lap/keyboard/lap while he sorts out the best way of nabbing a scritch. Then I’ll look out the window while mulling something or nothing. Knit a few rows of whatever is on the needles. Scritch the cat, who has won the battle of the lap. Run downstairs and put the laundry in the dryer, and grab a cookie to fortify myself.
Then I’ll sit at my desk again and stare at the comma I just put back in, and take it out again.
Yesterday was the usual, dull but productive. My time spent writing was punctuated by the thunk of icicles falling off the house, but really, the highlight of the day was watching the cat fall into the toilet. During a needy moment of seething round the sink while I brushed my teeth he misjudged the empty hot water bottle, which was half-dangling over the edge of the counter. With great confidence he seethed onto the dangling bit, which toppled. Into the toilet it went with a splash, followed by the cat, who righted himself and stalked off with his damp tail held aloft, as if to say, I meant to do that.
After I stopped laughing I sat down at my desk and put the comma back in.