My life is like that movie "Groundhog Day": every day exactly the same.
I have no one to blame but myself, the unique brain chemistry that makes me a prisoner of routine. Part of the whole obsessive-compulsive thing, I suppose, my desire to control every aspect of my life. And so I maintain a schedule that would make a pack horse wince, believing that time away from writing is wasted time. My eyes pop open every morning, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and the first thing I do is pad across the hall to my office. Ritually touching the pages left from the night before, the monitor, some of the toys and trinkets stationed about the room, representing talismans and fetishes (for reasons too foolish to name).
Coffee, breakfast, check some e-mails...
And then back upstairs, into the office, music to get me warmed up and then settling in for a full day's work. Has to be a full day or else I don't get to sleep for a looonng time that night. Punishment for shirking my duties. The Boss is a hard, demanding task master.
I need sleep. Morning always shows up unexpectedly and then I have to get the boys off to school, imbibe the first of my two cups of strong coffee, eyes snapping open, caffeine surging through my veins--
That opening paragraph, still too long...
Shorten up the sentences, make it snappier...
They need to meet sooner...
The guy in the rain coat has two different coloured eyes...
The next thing I know, it's four o'clock and my sons are barging in the door and I've forgotten to take the meat out for supper and there are three phone messages and six e-mails--
And after supper, an hour or two (or three) of checking through that day's work, corrections, finishing off by making notes for tomorrow's session, instructions (as it were) for the morning shift.
Nine o'clock--maybe manage a couple of episodes of "South Park" or some Brit comedy series with Sherron before crashing around 10:30 or 11:00.
Wake at 7:00.
Repeat ad nauseum.
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