A Typical Day in My Life as a Part-time Author
Though it might surprise folks, very few authors make their living solely upon their book deals and royalties. One has to be very fortunate to be able to name author as their profession on their income tax forms. Therefore, I thought it appropriate to take my fans and followers through a typical day in my life just so that you can understand a little bit more about the world of a part-time author.
I wake up though the alarm didn’t go off just yet. That is usual. My wife is still asleep beside me. A vague memory is in my mind about the dream that I just had. Part of the dream was about the book I am writing or planning, but the dream fades before I can fully remember anything but a vague feeling about the dream. My mind woke me up because it somehow knows that it is time to get up to get ready for work; it’s nearly five o’clock.
Wearily, I reach for the clock and turn off the alarm that I dutifully set, though I know that it’s most likely that the alarm will never be allowed to sound. A yawn and a need to stretch hit me simultaneously. I yawn and stretch, fumble in the darkness for the dresser, and open the top drawer to find a change of underwear.
With my whites in hand, I stumble toward the bathroom door and after closing the bathroom door, I flip on the light. Putting my whites on the counter of the sink, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Somehow, the glimpse of my image reminds me of a thought that I had for my current book project, so I shower while thinking upon that thought.
Once out of the shower, and still thinking upon the thought that came to me with my image, I shave the parts of my face that my beard doesn’t cover and then I go to the dark bedroom to get dressed. Out of habit, I know that my attire for the day is on the two hooks on the bedroom door closest to the wall. It’s my habit to put them there the night before. While getting dressed, I continue to think about the idea.
Once dressed, I go to the kitchen for a quick bite of breakfast. As soon as the abbreviated breakfast is on the table I get my briefcase from its place just outside my bedroom door and open it up on the table. Eating breakfast becomes a secondary activity as I take out a pad from the briefcase and jot down the essence of the morning’s idea.
The jotting and the eating finish around the same time, and I close my briefcase, take my lunch box out of the fridge, and put it by my briefcase. Then I’m off to brush my teeth and comb my hair and beard. Another idea hits me as I finish up so I make a beeline to my briefcase and quickly jot down the essence of that idea. Closing up the briefcase, I’m out the door with briefcase and lunchbox in hand.
The drive to work is a long one. My mind churns as it tries to develop the ideas. Sometimes, my mind gets so lost in thought that I arrive at work without remembering the trip. This is one of those commutes, but once my wheels hit the parking lot, I come back to my surroundings. However, my first urge is to make additional notes before anything else so after parking the car. I open my briefcase and record my thoughts on my pad.
Once I pull myself out of the car, I manage to focus on work, but the nature of my job gives me a few moments when I have nothing to do. I live for these moments. I use these moments to edit copy, to make more notes and sometimes I can even use these moments to write a few paragraphs. Each moment of downtime is used, nothing is wasted. Writing is in my blood and I’m driven to it when I have nothing else to do. On occasion, I’m disappointed when work comes my way, and I think it terrible that someone dare disturb my creative flow.
I find that I have to guard myself against this attitude, and remind myself that I’m being paid to do the work that comes my way. After all, I’m not being paid to write. My passion to write is hard to bridle and occasionally flares out of control within me. It’s all that I can do to contain it, but the passion is contained, and I begin to concentrate on the work once again. The work day flies by since I’m always busy with work or writing and soon I’m on my way home again.
The commute home is pretty much like the commute to work. My mind conjures ideas and I strain to form those ideas into usable thoughts. Once home, I hurry into the den and scramble to jot make entries into my note files on the computer. Some I transfer from work while others I transfer from my pad. This is when the true creative process for my writing takes place and I treasure it greatly.
My wife comes home and I take some time out to greet her and eat supper with her. I try really hard to make the time I spend with my wife and children time of good quality, but before long my passion draws me back into the den. Many times I stay in the den until my mind can no longer function. I then drag my body toward the bedroom.
After putting my clothes for the next day on the door hooks, I go to bed. Most times, I can’t get to sleep right away because my mind is still conjuring up ideas. Other times, my wife provides some diversion. When this is the case, I fall asleep much more quickly when it’s time to sleep. But nothing prevents me from dreaming of the story in my mind when sleep comes. The story is always with me.
I wake up though the alarm didn’t go off just yet. That is usual. My wife is still asleep beside me. A vague memory is in my mind about the dream that I just had. Part of the dream was about the book I am writing or planning, but the dream fades before I can fully remember anything but a vague feeling about the dream. My mind woke me up because it somehow knows that it is time to get up to get ready for work; it’s nearly five o’clock.
Wearily, I reach for the clock and turn off the alarm that I dutifully set, though I know that it’s most likely that the alarm will never be allowed to sound. A yawn and a need to stretch hit me simultaneously. I yawn and stretch, fumble in the darkness for the dresser, and open the top drawer to find a change of underwear.
With my whites in hand, I stumble toward the bathroom door and after closing the bathroom door, I flip on the light. Putting my whites on the counter of the sink, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Somehow, the glimpse of my image reminds me of a thought that I had for my current book project, so I shower while thinking upon that thought.
Once out of the shower, and still thinking upon the thought that came to me with my image, I shave the parts of my face that my beard doesn’t cover and then I go to the dark bedroom to get dressed. Out of habit, I know that my attire for the day is on the two hooks on the bedroom door closest to the wall. It’s my habit to put them there the night before. While getting dressed, I continue to think about the idea.
Once dressed, I go to the kitchen for a quick bite of breakfast. As soon as the abbreviated breakfast is on the table I get my briefcase from its place just outside my bedroom door and open it up on the table. Eating breakfast becomes a secondary activity as I take out a pad from the briefcase and jot down the essence of the morning’s idea.
The jotting and the eating finish around the same time, and I close my briefcase, take my lunch box out of the fridge, and put it by my briefcase. Then I’m off to brush my teeth and comb my hair and beard. Another idea hits me as I finish up so I make a beeline to my briefcase and quickly jot down the essence of that idea. Closing up the briefcase, I’m out the door with briefcase and lunchbox in hand.
The drive to work is a long one. My mind churns as it tries to develop the ideas. Sometimes, my mind gets so lost in thought that I arrive at work without remembering the trip. This is one of those commutes, but once my wheels hit the parking lot, I come back to my surroundings. However, my first urge is to make additional notes before anything else so after parking the car. I open my briefcase and record my thoughts on my pad.
Once I pull myself out of the car, I manage to focus on work, but the nature of my job gives me a few moments when I have nothing to do. I live for these moments. I use these moments to edit copy, to make more notes and sometimes I can even use these moments to write a few paragraphs. Each moment of downtime is used, nothing is wasted. Writing is in my blood and I’m driven to it when I have nothing else to do. On occasion, I’m disappointed when work comes my way, and I think it terrible that someone dare disturb my creative flow.
I find that I have to guard myself against this attitude, and remind myself that I’m being paid to do the work that comes my way. After all, I’m not being paid to write. My passion to write is hard to bridle and occasionally flares out of control within me. It’s all that I can do to contain it, but the passion is contained, and I begin to concentrate on the work once again. The work day flies by since I’m always busy with work or writing and soon I’m on my way home again.
The commute home is pretty much like the commute to work. My mind conjures ideas and I strain to form those ideas into usable thoughts. Once home, I hurry into the den and scramble to jot make entries into my note files on the computer. Some I transfer from work while others I transfer from my pad. This is when the true creative process for my writing takes place and I treasure it greatly.
My wife comes home and I take some time out to greet her and eat supper with her. I try really hard to make the time I spend with my wife and children time of good quality, but before long my passion draws me back into the den. Many times I stay in the den until my mind can no longer function. I then drag my body toward the bedroom.
After putting my clothes for the next day on the door hooks, I go to bed. Most times, I can’t get to sleep right away because my mind is still conjuring up ideas. Other times, my wife provides some diversion. When this is the case, I fall asleep much more quickly when it’s time to sleep. But nothing prevents me from dreaming of the story in my mind when sleep comes. The story is always with me.
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