Some people have asked what my normal day looks like.
Get up when I wake up, anywhere between 5 – 6:30 a.m. Make the bed. (Rick’s already been up for a couple of hours, reading in the living room. Coffee is ready when I appear, bleary eyed.)
Read the One Year Bible.
Read devotionals. Rick and I read devotionals to one another – four in all, every one very interesting. We search for different ones each year. After reading, we pray together.
Breakfast — not granola and yogurt, but eggs. Steamed eggs, scrambled eggs, fried eggs, or eggs in pancakes, but always two or three eggs and toast or sweet roll or muffin or something else equally unhealthy and delicious.
Take a 10-20 minute walk on the elliptical, ride 2-5 miles on the recumbent bike while watching a game show.
Shower and get ready for work.
Do a little housework. Go to work downstairs.
Answer email. Work.
Take a break with Sarge. Throw the ball, fetch the ball, throw the ball, find the ball. It’s a game we both play. I come inside with spider webs and leaves in my hair. He comes in panting a grin.
Work.
Lunch with Rick unless he’s already had lunch or is playing golf. Sometimes he serves me lunch in the office.
Back to work. Sometimes I run errands. To Walmart. Or Costco. Costco is dangerous. Too many temptations. I can never get past the book table.
Dinner and the television news. Sometimes I cook. Sometimes we eat a bowl of cereal – I kid you not!
Evenings are quiet. Rick and I are usually downstairs together, watching television or reading, writing letters, paying bills, making plans, looking forward to doing something else on our bucket list.
Sometimes I get up in the middle of the night because an idea pops into my head and I don’t want to forget it. And then I end up working a little more. Or shoveling papers around. Or answering email. Or filing something that should have already been filed. Or paying bills, writing notes or whatever other things have been left undone (except vacuuming).
When I was young, I thought the life of a writer would be exciting. I imagined myself in a one room flat overlooking Golden Gate Park and living off sourdough French bread and water – all for the sake of art. This is my reality: It seems to be the reality of many writers I know – a routine, lots of work and a lot of that work going on inside my head where no one sees – keeping God first and finding balance between work and family.
Years ago, one of my children overheard a discussion between me and Rick about money troubles. My little boy came to me in all seriousness and said, “Mommy, why don’t you get a job?”
Ah, well, what could I say to that except: “I have one.”
And I rejoice in it.