The closest thing I have to a routine these days is clicking through job adverts, and then clicking through Facebook and reading blogs before lunch. All of this is fueled by the zombie-coffee Sarge makes for me before he heads to work. Depending on the mood I’m in/whether it’s a good hair day, he makes me two cups. I finish one and take the other into the bedroom or on the couch to read. Or I break out my green leather notebook and write. Today, the notebook smells of oranges. I have no idea why. I usually write for awhile, stare at my computer files. Then I crank up some music and do laps around the house. Yes, really. I might go down to Starbucks, while trying to avoid getting sucked into bookshops along the way. I get home, write some more. Tell at least six telemarketers that while we might need a new kitchen, we don’t own the place our kitchen is in. Have a nice day.
Sarge gets home. I talk a lot. He talk not so much. We eat and watch TV. I might watch Don’t Tell The Bride while he works on stuff for our actual wedding. We go to bed. I get up again. Stare at files and then a blank screen. Or not. I go to bed at two or three in the morning and then it starts again.
Visits with Dad and Anne are now on Saturdays. We take a transit picnic on the train. We arrive and conversation is split between Dad’s treatment/the state of his beard and the wedding.
Yesterday, I found myself looking for a job. For four hours. I may have sat on the couch and started to fizz. ‘Apart from meeting you,’ I said to Sarge, ‘this isn’t what I thought my life would be. How did I get here?’
That particular existential crisis ended in this:
I will write, on screen, every day from 1 pm to 6 pm. I will finish things. I will throw worry and doubt and telemarketers out the window.
I have three minutes to post this and get on with it.
So, what does your schedule look like?
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