Ever wanted to be a writer?

Come and trade places with me for a day....

A writer's life is very glamorous, so you need to dress up-in sweats and socks, at least. Or, if you're in to running around in your underwear, that's okay, too. Because you now work for yourself and you rarely leave the house (once you get my five kids off to school, that is-hey, if you're going to be ME...).

You might be tempted to nibble as the house falls silent. You've spent the first part of the morning screaming for the three of my five children still living at home to come down to breakfast, to get their homework in their backpacks, to comb their hair, brush their teeth and change into something that's clean and matches (don't mother's ask a lot?). But you can't take the time to sit down for breakfast because every minute that the kids are happily occupied is Precious (capital letter intended). Hunger is not to be ignored, however--just managed. I have a firm rule that the wonderful goods in my junk food drawer, contributed by my hubby (hey, I'm a good cause) and located next to my computer, are absolutely off limits until after nine a.m., except on mornings where I wake up before that time or there's a shortage of cold cereal in my kitchen cupboards.

Because I want this to reflect well on me, let's pretend there's plenty of cold cereal and you leave my Chewy Sweet-tarts, Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop Tarts, Rain-blo Bubblegum, and real milk chocolate malt balls alone. You carry your Special K With Strawberries up to my computer so you can utilize (notice I didn't say "waste") the next thirty minutes satisfying a mild e-mail addiction. (Did I say mild? Actually I spend more like an hour and a half, but I do manage to return a few messages that really count-like the ones from my editor saying she needs to see my latest proposal before she can cut me another check).

As you finish reading the posts from my many writer loops (people who share words of wisdom, research tips, and the same general dysfunction I do), and the lectures from my on-line classes (where I learn such inspiring concepts as how to think like a serial killer), you begin to worry about that far distant and obscure thing called a Deadline-probably because it's not so far distant or obscure anymore. You quickly count the days until your next book is due, divide by the number of pages you have left and arrive at a daily goal. Then you obsess over the way the minutes and hours have that irritating tendency to zip by, which causes you to freeze up so you can't write, and you decide it's time to open my junk food drawer and enjoy some of those malt balls I mentioned, just to get you going again.

After writing a few sentences that you immediately edit right off the page (too passive, you say...too out of character...too...something) you spend at least an hour staring at your computer screen in a sort of dazed stupor you hope passes for internal plotting before you begin to regret how avidly you've avoided interruptions--because at some point your friends became interruptions and it's getting mighty lonely sitting there in your underwear. You solve this problem by switching over to e-mail, where you find you have another two dozen messages that simply must be read. Which you follow with a check of Amazon.com (since you're already on-line it will only take a second), in case one of your readers has been thoughtful enough to leave you a glowing review (very motivational). Then you hurry back to the old work-in-progress because--you guessed it!--that deadline just inched a little closer (and you didn't finish all your pages from yesterday).

Of course, you have other things to look forward to besides the actual writing. Not television or radio or a good telephone conversation with your mother. A self-disciplined writer wouldn't allow such things-not until the working day is through. But the mailman comes just after lunch, and he might bring something important, something business related, like a check. Or one of those riveting trade magazines you spend the next half hour scouring for your latest review along with the reviews of all those wonderful books written by other people you no longer have time to read. You lament the fact that being a writer makes it very difficult to read for pleasure anymore-what with edits and research and any critiquing you might do--so you decide to reclaim that part of your life and start in on the "to-be-read" pile that has now reached the ceiling in your bedroom. But alas! Guilt eventually overtakes you, and you're soon back at the computer (to check your e-mail).

Another hour of brilliant creativity--spent pondering several promotional ideas you'll never have the resources to implement-brings you to the sudden and very startling realization that your day, so far, has been a little too sedentary to be good for your heart or your hips. You get up and exercise, hoping your subconscious remains on-task while you're away from your latest gem of a manuscript. But you'll have to wait until tomorrow to find out because as soon as you're through with the ole' jumping jacks, it's time to start the carpools that will eventually bring all my children home.

As a bonus, if you decide to hold out for the entire day, you'll soon be tossed into the very stimulating and exciting throes of doing homework and making dinner amid clamor equal only to a cement mixer.

Not realistic, you say? Well, I could tell you what I really do, but then you might not want to trade me.

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