I look forward to the day when I have an AutoChef like Eve Dallas has in J.D. Robb's In Death series. Until then, my husband and I share cooking and dish duty. I'm lucky that he does his own laundry. I do mine and the common laundry (sheets, towels). We both clean the house.
Grocery shopping, cooking, laundry, housecleaning - all take time. Time that in theory is better spent writing.
The reality is that sometimes laundry sings a siren song. Sometimes, the words aren't flowing as a writer would wish. Sometimes, any thing is a welcome distraction. Those times are when Things Get Done.
Other times, when I'm in flow, I resist stopping. I want to stay in the story and keep going. I want elves to clean the house and do the laundry, and fairies to bring me food and take the plate away when only crumbs are left. I want to stay in my bunker and write, write, write. I don't want to interact with anyone except the imaginary people in the made-up world I put them in.
But that's not my life, and few writers can or want to live like a hermit. Elves and fairies are in short supply, and the AutoChef isn't available. Getting lost in my writing every day isn't an option, and I have an office in town that keeps me motivated to shower and dress in real clothes.
The romantic notion of a writer tucked away in a room for days on end is mostly fiction. Some rare writers might achieve seclusion, but those I know have lives in which writing is just a part. The life of a writer looks like the life of anyone who has a job, a relationship, and friends.
A writer's life looks like your life, but writers look at daily life with a warped eye and turn it into drama.
I'd love to hear your thoughts about this!
Labels: Writing Life