Dream Life as a Writer:

• Wake up without an alarm.  Preferably before noon.  Except on Wednesdays, then I get up early.
• Pour a big cup of coffee.  Note that the housekeeper (incidentally, a classically-trained French pastry chef who just happens to like the scent of Pledge) brought croissants the other day.  Breakfast is shared with the Hubs.
• Still in my pajamas (which are actually mine and not my husband’s old shirt and flannel pants), I wander to my writing room (pictures of which have been shared numerous times on Pinterest boards with titles like, “my dream den”)
• Sit in my super-nice leather chair, fire up the laptop, and begin writing.
• The words flow like water, every time.  I NEVER lack inspiration.
• My Personal Assistant shows up, fields a few calls, answers some emails, and books a few speaking gigs for me.  You know, the usual.
• Complete three chapters or episodes or whatevers of whatever I’m working on.  They are perfect, minimal editing needed.
• Get dressed.
• Ride the horses.
• Have a sandwich.
• Weed the garden.
• Return to writing.
• Shop online, buy awesome gifts for friends (so be nice to me).
• Dinner with the hubs (What?  the French chef branched out into main dishes and wants us to sample his/her beef wellington?  Oh, alright, fine then.)
• After-dinner relaxation on the deck with the hubs, each of us sipping fabulous local wine.
• Wednesdays are different.  I get up before 9 a.m. because it’s manicure/pedicure/massage/wax day.

Reality

• Wake up to NPR on the alarm.  Hit snooze.  Repeat.
• Weigh myself and vow that THIS is the day I’ll start a diet.  Maybe.
• Break a drinking glass in the kitchen sink while trying to navigate the pile of dirty dishes so I can fill the coffee pot and brew some damn coffee.  I’m already grouchy.
• Pick the moldy bits of some old bread and toast it on a stove burner for breakfast.  (The toaster isn’t working.)
• Go to my den.  By “den” I actually mean the room in the house that the cats and dogs have taken over for their own use, which is apparently to shed copious amounts of fur.  I think they actually walk in, somehow flex their muscles, and 90% of their fur flies off.
• Sit down at my computer (after moving the cat off my chair and getting scratched).  Stare blankly at the screen.  Check facebook.  Pin stuff on Pinterest.  Check and re-check my email.  Read about the latest celebrity gossip.  Return to staring blankly at the screen.
• Get dressed, because apparently there are rules against wearing the thread-bare “I [heart] to swing” shirt and underpants to work.
• Spill coffee on work clothes.
• Go to work.
• Come home.  Pick up where I left off on Facebook and Pinterest.
• Stare at a blank screen as I try to write.
• Have a glass of wine.  Screw it, finish the whole bottle.
• Go to bed.

Yeah, so, there’s some disparity there.  I actually don’t have toast for breakfast.