Day in the Life of Myrna MacKenzie

Run! Hide! The paparazzi are coming! Everyone wants a piece of a celebrity author! Come on, come on, come on!

I open my eyes, blink at my husband standing by the bedside, a human alarm clock, and realize that no, I’m not a celebrity after all. I’m a writer, and fantasy of all kinds (even the kind that shows up when I’m sleeping) is my bread and butter. For now it’s six AM. My husband is almost ready for work and wanting to visit until it’s time for him to leave. I’m one of those instantly awake persons (yes, my kind is annoying I know) and I love the morning best of all, so, pleased to be up, I throw on casual clothes, trot downstairs and make the coffee.

It’s ready. Take a deep breath. Ah! Who needs the bright lights and cheers of adoring fans when a cup of caffeine offers such ecstasy? Not me. I’m a total java junkie and proud of it. I chat with my husband about what’s in the newspaper this morning, but soon he’s off to work.

Alone in my house, I survey my surroundings. Housework calls (I’ve neglected it while writing my latest book), but there is more to write and housework is…well, it’s housework. Let me see…I can choose a neat environment or I can choose to spend my morning fantasizing about a hunky guy (Justin) falling in love with a killer woman (Lorelei)? Hmmm, what a choice! I sneer at the dust on the table and march to my computer. The hunky guy wins today.

But first, I run through my morning routine. Check the email, catch up on professional news, call my mother and exercise (okay, sometimes I exercise. Really. Sometimes).

Then on to writing. I try to write until lunchtime, at a desk that is messy but also covered in comforting objects given to me by family members: the stuffed koala from my oldest son’s mission trip to Australia, the miniature globe from my youngest son, the stuffed penguin from my husband (given to me after we watched that show where the male penguins watched the eggs while the females toddled off together, presumably to have lunch and gossip about their men). A poster of Einstein pulling the planets out of a magician’s hat hangs over my desk (don’t ask. It just looks cool and it doesn’t distract me). There are bulletin boards covered with bits and pieces of paper with important information I keep telling myself I might need someday but in fact rarely remember to look at. There’s a pink silk rose, symbolic of my long ago first sale and an autographed photo of a former Chicago Bear. Bookcases overflow. Post-its are everywhere. Resting my fingers on the familiar keys, I give them a brief clack, getting ready to write. And then I’m off. The story takes shape. I am in heaven.

For twenty, thirty, maybe even forty-five minutes I type away. Then I get up. I rarely sit for an entire hour without taking a tour of the house. Movement seems to stir my creativity. My morning is broken into a pattern of type, pace, type, pace, take a shower, type, pace, get a cup of coffee, type, pace, pace, type, type, type, pace. Breaking only for lunch, the occasional errand or (guilty gulp here) to check my email many times, I continue to pace and write until the writing day is over. But…it’s never really over. I’ve yet to meet a writer who can turn off the inner genie. Ideas fly at you when you least expect them. Pick up a rutabaga at the grocery store and the next thing you know, an amazing idea will be zipping through your brain. You get used to it. Pull out paper and a pen and jot it down. Try not to laugh or scream “yes!” because the idea is so fantastic it will change the world. Remain calm and go back to your rutabaga. If you did actually say something, smile politely at the people now staring at you. Do not try to explain that you are a writer and just had an aha! Moment. No one ever believes that and you will just look even crazier.

But, back to my day (excuse me for digressing). For practical purposes, the writing day usually ends at four o’clock. I love to walk at the end of the day to get the kinks out and to make up for the exercise I failed to do earlier. I live near the city in a village with lots of big old houses (not mine) and big old trees. There’s a gorgeous red brick city hall with a fountain, flower boxes and several pretty blocks of little shops and restaurants. In the summer, the downtown is filled with people. My husband and I frequently stroll there and have dinner at a little restaurant that has a cozy beer garden out back, or we buy coffee, find a bench and just sit there contented to live in such a lovely town where a person can still walk everywhere or catch the train into the city.

We’ve traveled a lot in our lives and will travel again, but these quieter times are nice, too. Life is good. And if things get a little slow, there’s always Justin and Lorelei to fill the hours (or Derek and Marie or Gabriel and Amelia or all the other characters yet to be born).

The housework can wait a while longer. There are stories to write and dreams to dream. I choose to dream.

And every night (and every day), I do.