I often feel slightly disingenuous by only showing you the tiny details of what it’s like to be a writer. Today I’m going to counterbalance that by telling you what it’s actually like.
Buckle up people and let me take you on a mediocre journey that you’ll no doubt soon forget.
I wake up half an hour before my alarm goes off. After a night of worrying that I’m not doing enough (whatever that means) and spending the super early hours of the morning sat at my desk getting my thoughts out on paper, I feel rough. I contemplate asking Siri to bring me a glass of water and wonder if it’s too late to start 2018 all over again.
I make breakfast. Today’s Yogi tea bag tells me that “wherever there is love, there is no question”. I drag my single arse to the fridge and pour myself an orange juice instead.
I do all of the usual working from home stuff. Check emails to see if any of the people I’ve emailed have bothered to reply, jump in the shower, brush teeth, wash face and decide to make that cup of tea after all.
At my desk. True to form, the romance of Jazz provides me with the soundtrack to my working day.
I begin creating two articles that I hope to complete whilst I’m having a good mental health day and put together a rough set of questions and plans for three upcoming interviews. Thrilling.
Thought I’d check in seeing as I’ve been playing with a piece of Blu Tac instead of writing for what feels like a good 15 minutes. The whole Jazz thing was fun while it lasted but I’ve been told to “listen to Nicki Minaj’s new album” because apparently “there’s some bangers on there mate.”
I should probably get back to work.
Feeling productive. Had lunch and articles are finished so I turn my attention to the photography which requires me to make my way down to South Bank. Catching the central line is my easiest option from East London but I’m not sure if it’s worth sacrificing my sanity or normal body temperature for.
On the way there I need to pop into my local charity shop to see if they have a Fresh Prince of Bel Air inspired shirt for my friend Natalie’s 90s inspired hen weekend. I only need the shirt seeing as I already own most of the bits that I need. I don’t know what that says about my personal style (probably that I’ve got swag am I right guys?)
The original plan was for me and my sister to go as Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince but she bailed on me last minute with a “I’m just gonna go with double denim. That’s 90s ennit?”
As a result this Fresh Prince will be riding solo this weekend.
Due to too much faffing I decide to take the underground. On my way in I check my Oyster card balance and wonder if I’ll be able to make £8.20 last four days. I’ll give it a bloody good go.
Now on the train. Found myself sat opposite a guy whose outfit is screaming “look at my fucking lime green shorts!” but I’m admiring his “no fucks given” attitude.
The temperature on this train is also making me regret my decision to take said mode of transport. I feel like I’ve been dragged down to hell for a test drive.
Made it to South Bank. Only been here 5 minutes and have already spotted my favourite species. The runner who decides to go jogging on South Bank during peak times and gets arsey when there’s tourists in the way.
Pictures done. I make my way across the river to edit my photos in my current favourite spot to write at Somerset House (which I’ve got a feeling that I most definitely shouldn’t be using.)
Walk up to Chancery Lane to meet my sister from work. You can’t beat a cheeky bit of human interaction. Actually you probably can.
I take her generic question of “Alright mate?” a little too literally and bombard her with an avalanche of statements about how I put so much effort into my work and no one gives a dogs arse and how I’d still be writing regardless of if anyone read my work but I need to sustain a living blah blah yadda yadda.
Just got in. Chuck my bag on my bed and my keys on my desk. I glance upon a copy of The Alchemist that has been sitting there looking depressed for almost two weeks. I feel guilty. Due to my attention span often deciding that it wants to mirror that of a five year old child’s, I’m yet to read part two.
I decide to unwind for the night by watching Secret Diary of a Call Girl in bed.
Waking up at midnight and writing into the early hours has become quite the habit of mine. I struggle to sleep anyway and seem to come up with my best ideas during the night. I can’t say that I’m happy with the way things are though. I’m often sleep deprived but if I ignore my creativity then I end up forgetting what my ideas even were by the time 9 a.m. rolls around.
I decide to open my journal and empty my mind on to a fresh page of lined paper. If I’m lucky, it will in some way inspire tomorrow’s work.