Day in the Life of an (Almost) Sane Writer
6.00 am
Ever noticed how all the top business executives get up frighteningly early? You know, you read in the
magazines that they leap out of bed at 6.00am, jog until 7.00 and are in the office by 8.00.
Get real. I hate mornings. I've seen 6.00am on the clock. But I rarely use it.
10.00 am
Ah, this is more like it. Open one eye. Neighbour's dog is barking. Think about getting up.
10.10 am
Do the hardest work of the day. Get out of bed. Stagger into the shower. Stand under it
until guilt about wasting water gets me – or the hot water runs out. The blast from the hair dryer finally wakes me up.
10.30 am
Children have already gone to school. I hope. I check their bedrooms just in case. Yep. All clear.
Eat breakfast. Get impatient with my own company and take the second piece of toast with me as I head to work.
My studio is located out the front door, four steps forward, turn right, cross over the stone
bridge and unlock the door into my office. Traffic is terrible. Not. The goldfish hear my footsteps on the bridge and come out with open mouths, begging for breakfast too. I throw them a crust.
10.45 am
For once, there are no phone calls to return. Bliss. Do email. I usually get about 20-30 a
day. I delete the SPAM first. Every morning I get offers to make me a millionaire in ten days (so far none have paid up).
I do the fan mail next. I love hearing from kids and reading what they think of my books. I
shoot off a few answers and find for some reason the automatic spell check didn't run. Oh well. Kids will probably be delighted to discover that a real live author is a real bad speller.
Other emails are business. My editor ask me to check my entry on the HarperCollins website,
the publicist sends a press release for my approval, and a newspaper is asking for my biography for an article. I read, write, cut, paste and press Send about twenty times.
Necessary stuff, but not exactly what I call writing. I mean how many times can you tell your life story without actually wanting to er… jazz it up - just a little?????
It's amazing how little time writers actually spend writing….
12.00
Despite promising myself that I won't, I answer at least five emails
from friends - ie, I chat. A friend in California is trying to finish two books, prepare for a TV interview and sell her house all at the same
time, so I give her some motherly advice like 'Don't be bloody crazy woman!' Another friend in Michigan is complaining loudly about a bet
we had - first one to get a picture book published was the deal. I won. Surprising really, seeing I haven't even finished the manuscript I was working on when we made the bet. There is some heated email
debate about what the actual prize was, I claim it was a week's holiday for two in Hawaii, she counter claims it was a bottle of cheap
champagne. We finally settle on dinner – she'll shout, but as she lives in the middle of America I figure it will be some time before I get there to claim my prize.
Grinning to myself I then whip off a quick answer to Belinda in Perth
about a book contact, send instructions to Joan in Alabama on how to get rid of a virus and oops, oh no, damn, I've done it again. There goes over an hour. I'm a bad, bad bunny.
Still, writing is a lonely business. Can't think why people see it as glamorous. Most of the time
it is just me and the computer and a couple of birds singing out of tune outside. Pretty solo stuff. If I didn't chat by email I'd probably end up listening to my own recording on the
answering machine, just to hear another voice.
 1.00 pm
Lunch time, and while most people have put in half a day's work, I haven't actually put the
brain in gear yet. But hey, the stomach calls. I stop and scavenge in the fridge. Discover a real find, left over Thai food. Scoff that down in the sunshine outside my studio while the fish
beg in the pond at my feet. I hang tough. Fish don't like chilli I'm sure. Besides, there is barely enough for me.
1.20 pm
OK, this is it. Sleeves up, sit at the desk, deep breath and pull out the pages I wrote
yesterday. Yes, really, finally, drum roll please, I am actually preparing to write. I start by
reading Chapter 15, last night's work. I jot a few rough notes in the margin like, 'cut this bit/ make Tess more frustrated/ Laura needs to ask about Maureen…' and hope it will all make
sense next month when I do the editing.
I usually draft the whole book right through to the end, leave it for a couple of weeks and
then edit it. Five times. Sometimes seven. Or even nine. Best not to think about that, or I'd give up right now.
The email pings, announcing another message. I steel myself to ignore it. My fingers itch to
move the mouse, click on the email program. I shake myself, and keep reading. Am I good or what?
2.10 pm
The phone rings. An English teachers association in Queensland wants to confirm a booking
for a conference. I try and sound efficient, committed, concise, (I love doing conferences) but my brain is full of Laura-the-kid-sister and how to get her to the meeting in Chapter 16. I
talk and nod, pencil in the dates in my diary and make lots of notes that I can read later when I am in business mode. I've been caught before. Often.
2.20 pm
So, now on to Chapter 16. What do I need in this section? I check my overall plan.
(Naturally, I have a plan, I always have the whole book mapped out in advance. Though, I don't always stick to it totally.) Right, plan says Tess wants to pull the pin on the fight
against the paper mill. She's tried everything she knows, nothing works. 'Pilot Paper are huge,' she says. 'And ruthless.' But Matt pushes her to go on.
Sounds good. But er… exactly how's he going to do that? I stop, think, chew a nail or two,
come up with idea number 1, nah, too tacky, idea 2 – yuck, not strong enough. But wait a minute, how about if Matt talks to the other Green Guerrillas before the meeting, gets them all
on side. Yeah, that's exactly what Matt would do, the sexy, sneaky bugger. Then the whole gang will be sitting there, exerting pressure on Tess. If she backs off, she'll lose her
leadership role…. Poor Tess. But then - just when she is about to walk out - a chance comment about email triggers an idea. She reaches out and yanks the bit of paper on which
Toni is making notes and throws it in the bin. Toni is stunned. But Tess is hyped. 'We're
fighting a paper mill right?' she says. 'So we don't use a single scrap of paper. We use email,
Websites, demonstrations even. But not one scrap of paper.' And so, begins the totally paperless war against a paper mill…
3.45 pm
The front door slams. I blink in confusion.
School's out. Kids are in.
'What's for afternoon tea?' asks Alex.
'You have to drive me to tramp training,' says Christie.
'I have an assignment on rainforests. What do you know about understoreys?'
It's the best part of the day. My time with the kids. But how has it come so quickly? While
they are not looking I jot a quick note or two to myself as Tess and her imaginary friends fade away. Then I grab the car keys.
'Come on,' I tell them. 'We'll get afternoon tea on the way to tramp. And maybe the
newsagent has some project stuff about rainforests…' I'm sure I'd seen one last year. Or was that on polar bears…?
5.30 pm
I am now an expert on parrots in rainforests and hummus, having culled the Internet for Alex
(he's only 11) and printed it all out for him. Lucky we use recycled paper…
Alex is on his computer, scrolling down the information he's written, laying it all out into some
web page package. I make mental notes to make him do all this for my own webpage when I get it written. About time he helped me with my homework…
6.00 pm
Gary gets home from work. He has picked up Christie on the way. She talks about triffiths,
half-in, half outs and back codies as if it all makes complete sense to us both. Well one out of two is OK. I nod intelligently.
Gary hangs around with the kids and starts cooking dinner. We share the household chores and he picked cooking. Probably self defence.
7.00 pm
We eat early because it is Thursday, volleyball night. I play AA women's and on Thursday A
grade mens. That means I sometimes play against Gary and his partner. They don't take it easy on me, and I don't expect it, so sometimes I get balls smashed right at me. I don't
sweat it. My partner and I are higher on the ladder than they are.
7.30 pm
We head out to volleyball, hit the sand (it's indoor) and warm up. Ten minutes later we are
both on separate courts fighting to chase balls that are just out of our reach. Occasionally I glance across at Gary to see how he is going. Not good. The sweat is pouring over his eyes
. My partner and I are having an easier time and our opponents swear loudly as yet another winner is hit at them. A lovely sound. The umpire immediately warns them for bad language.
The two boys apologise to me - but not to my partner. The umpire is trying to look professional, but inside he is cracking up. In the Victorian Open I was the only person to get
fined points for swearing on court. And that was in the men's section.
9.30 pm
Showered, changed and back home and refreshed from the exercise. Gary is reading to Alex
and Christie is reading to herself. I head out to the office. The goldfish are asleep or hiding or camouflaged in the dark. The computer hums as I click it out of sleep mode.
Ah yes, Tess…. Where were we? In a library I think. A good place for a meeting.
10.30 pm
Type, type, tippity type.
'It's just not possible!'
No one was moving. All you could hear was the squeak, squeak, squeak of the book trolley….
Five paragraphs are down on paper. And at last the ideas are flowing. I type as quickly as I
can, typos everywhere, who cares, the ideas are the most important thing.
11.30 pm
Gary comes in to say goodnight. He is going to bed. When I'm drafting a novel, we don't tend
to see each other much except at weekends, meal times or on the volleyball court. Just as well I only do this once a year.
12.00 pm
There are always two layers to a chapter – the plot and the emotional undercurrents. I make
sure both are operating at the same level. Words keep coming, not exactly pouring out, but emerging after thought and practise in a steady flow.
1.00 am
The mind is crystal clear, the ideas are emerging smoothly, there is confidence in every word I
type. I glance at the clock, but I know exactly what time it will be. Flow time. This is the addiction. This is the time I love the most. Athletes get this, peak performance, flow, when
every shot they make goes in, when every strategy they try is a winner. This is what it is like for writers. And it is always at 1.00 in the morning for me. I call it the crystal hour.
2.00 am
Still writing.
Sorry, it doesn't look much from the outside. It isn't very exciting to see. This is the boring
bit of my life - well, for you anyway. For me it is full of thoughts, clear, flowing, merging into time itself. If lions strolled into the office right now and showed me their teeth I'd probably
keep typing.
3.00 am
Still writing.
I wonder sometimes, in a sort of daze, if it really is me doing this. Writing is like magic coming out through my fingers.
4.00 am
Still writing.
4.10 am
Oh, oh. The first magpie carols. The blackbirds wake up a good ten minutes later, slack
things. I suddenly realise I am slowing down - the words are not coming easily now. I keep writing. If I am lucky I am at the end of a chapter. Sometimes I am not and I have to keep going.
4.20 am
Yep, end of the chapter and the blackbirds are wide-awake and yakking noisily outside in the
trees. About time, the magpies will have stolen all the worms. I save everything, do a word count and feel smug to find I have drafted 2,600 words today. A good haul. I copy it all
onto disc and leave it near the door. If a fire broke out, I'd know exactly where to find it. 
4.30 am
I put the music on softly out of deference to the neighbours and do some dance and stretching. Gee my
back aches. Chiropractors and physios love writers. Wonder why?
4.40 am
Outside, on the bridge across the pond, I breathe deeply, taking in great lungfuls of early
morning air. This is a wonderful time of day. I can see why people like mornings. I hesitate,
trying to think of a reason to stay longer. But I can't. Can't think much at all actually. Bed is calling stronger.
4.45 am
Creep into bed. It is light enough that I can find my PJs without turning on the light. That's a sad sign.
I set the alarm for 10.00am.
Gee, it's a great life…
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