You can't handle the truth.

Sure, every morning after a solid eight hours of sleep I gradually come into consciousness with at least fifteen fantastic ideas of where my book should go next simmering away in the back of my head.
My lithe yet muscular butler, six foot two, dark hair, blue-grey eyes with a mischievous smile, greets me with a mimosa as I gracefully make my way to my spacious personal office. The satin peignoir I wear feels soft and silky against my skin.
Outside the sun shines. Birds sing softly. My computer leaps to life within a fraction of a second. Of course the first thing to catch my eye is the twenty brand new five star reviews for my latest book. Then upon opening my e-mail I read letter after letter from my adoring fans who praise everything, from my commanding use of fullstops to the way I spell words such as honour, colour and calibre - in that charming Australian way I have about me.
I write non-stop for six hours, eating the occasional chocolate for fuel - I never put on weight even though I sit on my ass ALL day, because I am a glamorous writer after all.
I celebrate my productive day of writing with another mimosa, and a full body massage provided by the previously mentioned butler. Who has spent his day cleaning my house and making me a fabulous dinner.
And repeat.

The truth is so much sadder than that. If you wish to remain starry-eyed then stop here and read no further. For those of you made of sterner stuff -
I roll out of bed just after the sun rises as next door's car backfires as they leave for work. In my pjs I stumble to the computer. Check my emails. Check out Pinterest.. lose like thirty minutes of my life drooling over other people's kitchens and living rooms.
Make breakfast, usually porridge. Open up the draft of my latest book and start writing. Usually I have left myself some kind of helpful note such as - do that magic thing. Sex next.
Three hours later I head to my local fitness centre where I use the pool. This is where things start to get really sad. I have been known to fake that my gym card won't be read by the electronic turnstile so I have an excuse to approach the counter and speak to a real human being for ninety seconds. The sound of my own voice is croaky and rough from lack of use.
In the pool I nod and smile at a few people I know by sight. Zen time in the water as my mind switches off and suddenly I start getting some great ideas for story directions and character development. Of course I am in the pool, so no paper or pen. I repeat the ideas to myself, trying to wedge them into my brain box.
Back home I sit down at the computer again and try desperately to recall all the great ideas I had in the pool. Ummmmm.
Lunch. More time on Pinterest.
Working on latest draft until late afternoon when I switch to edit mode on an earlier draft of work. My ass is so numb by six o'clock that I have to force myself to head out for a walk in order to rediscover how to use my legs.
Dinner. Netflix. Bed.
Repeat.

You probably won't believe me but that, sadly, is closer to the truth most days of the week. So spare a thought occasionally for your favourite writers. Tell us about the latest book you loved... or hated. Write reviews. Send emails, even if it is to share that you admire my commanding use of fullstops.

May all your reads be five star fantastic