This should not be confused with driving home like a boss.
Not that I am complaining. I write books and poems and people read them, and that rocks. I get to do this highly cool thing. But I am not eating bon bons as I write this post, nor am I sitting in bed with my keyboard on a foofy pillow. The truth is, I am an ink-stained (well, eye-strained-from-staring-at-the-screen) wretch. Just like most folks who write seriously.
My husband (who truthfully, puts up with PLENTY), likes to tell people that he tip-toes around the house while I am drafting or revising my books, so as not to disturb the Genius At Work. This is not true. Ken, a classically-trained tenor, can make more noise just sneezing than two or three of your average leaf-blowers. Fortunately, noise doesn't bother me. Thinking I really should clean the cat's litter pan bothers me. Because if I have forgotten to do so, our older cat will poop in the dracena plant next to my husband's pipe organ. And my husband will set about practicing the damned Pachelbel Canon anyway, because he has another wedding and it's making him grumpy. He hates the Pachelbel Canon, whether or not there is a cat turd in the plant next to him. But the brides have to have it, so practice it he will. It's all on Pachelbel. The cat turd is never an issue for Ken.
Except then I will have to clean the litter pan AND the plant. And listen to that stupid canon. My husband will clean the cat's pan if I ask him to, but asking him to starts The Game. The Game is this: how long can I NOT do the thing I have been asked to do because my wife is trying to write? An hour? Two? Three? Wait...I still hear her typing. I've got tons of time.
Meanwhile, I am thinking, screw it. I definitely smell cat poop. I should just stop writing and go clean the pan. I get up and trudge upstairs from my study.
"Oh! I was just going to do that!" says my husband, who, by the way, is Not Practicing.
So first rule in the care and feeding of a writer is to pretend you are your neurotic mother and CLEAN SOMETHING. Like maybe THE CAT'S PAN! That made sense, right?
Okay, the feeding part.
I really don't hate cooking for myself. Or for others. It is the thing I like to do the most, next to writing and listening to music that isn't The Pachelbel Canon. However, having a takeout meal brought in and served to me in an attractive fashion is one of my very favorite things in the world. Especially if I haven't been asked what I want to eat first, because I don't know, although I'll tell you a secret: I'd really like some sushi.
Perhaps I'd like that sushi now. And by the way, "in an attractive fashion" means I require napkins. And utensils on the table.
That's really all there is to it. My needs are simple.
By the way, two new novels coming soon--from me, and from some daft ghost-chaser who calls herself Aletta Thorne.