Last night, as I feverishly worked on one of three novels I wanted to have finished like, yesterday, I commented to The Hubs that movies featuring writers always portray the writer as being insane.
Other than Funny Farm.  And that’s debatable.
It’s been a horror movie extravaganza on television recently and, boy howdy, I like horror movies.  We started watching “Sinister” last night which, of course, is about a true crime writer.  The Shining: crazy writer.  The Ninth Gate: Johnny Depp as a crazy writer?  I’m sure there are more.  Honestly, I’m too lazy to do a highly scientific Google search to confirm, but all in all, The Writer seems to be a solitary creature, sustaining on caffeine and grief, who holes up in a basement/attic/spare room to write The Work which, inevitably, pushes them off the deep end.
I’m jugging writing three novels right now (see aforementioned “sustaining on coffee”) and can totally endorse this.  I can’t decide on a political candidate to endorse (do we have anyone warming up in the bullpen, America?  I mean, really.) but I know for sure that I’m getting paler and clumsier and losing my ability to be socially elegant.  I’m not positive I was particularly elegant before, but guys: I don’t wear legit pants, have my hair up in a messy bun, and only wear makeup out to the grocery store.
And I haven’t been to the grocery store in like, two weeks.  The Hubs loves grocery shopping whereas I’d rather go to the gynecologist than stroll up and down aisles of food and argue over which brand over frozen green beans is tastier because I HATE the grocery store and it angers me.
Anyway.
I’ve been really bad with social media (cough cough blogging cough cough) and that’s not good for promoting my books, but I need to buckle down and finish these books.  Here’s what my current schedule looks like, for the most part:

• 6am: Wake up
• 6:30a – 5p: Day Job
• 5p – 9p: Time with kids, some form of dinner, workout, bullet journaling
• 9p – 11:30p: write
• anywhere from 11:30 to midnight: Go to bed.

Rinse.  Repeat.
I do shower, guys, don’t worry.  I usually squeeze it in after putting the kids to bed.  I might dress like a hobo, but I don’t smell like one.
This explains the tiredness.
So, yeah, there’s not a ton of time in there to write but, it is what it is.  I’ll sleep when I’m dead.  Maybe; with my luck, I’ll be a ghost with a big long list of shit to do in the afterlife.
Since August, I’ve started bullet journaling.  I cannot draw or sketch or doodle–and thusly am really bad at Win, Lose, or Draw–but it’s helped me keep track with all the little things I need to do during the week.  Like, for example, remembering to take The Rowdy Boys to their swim class.  Or go to the post office.
Plus, I like the satisfaction of crossing things off lists.  I will purposefully add finished things to lists just to cross them off.  Also: I like pens and markers and journals and will find any reason to buy them.
Obviously, I have delusions of grandeur when it comes to how much writing I can get done in a week.  Whatev.  You should see the page I made for “Books to Read: 2016.”  Yikes.  I won’t be winning Adult Book-It anytime soon.
Note: If there is an Adult Book-It, I have the feeling the prize is something more like a bottle of wine and a 40 count bag of pizza rolls.  Now that I can endorse.