Years ago, I relied on traditional media to keep me informed as to what was happening in the world. In particular, I enjoyed picking up The Times, of a weekend. Bypassing the massive broadsheet, I would head straight for the Sunday magazine, and A Life in the Day.
A Life in the Day is a long running column in The Sunday Times Magazine. Each week it offers a 24-hour snapshot of famous or notable individual, highlighting their daily routines and domestic habits. A rare insight into their everyday life, their hidden world. The feature often provides profound insight and – more often than not – a bite of humour. In it, I found myself searching for clues, for their secret. How they had achieved such status. What it actually showed me was ordinary people, usually doing ordinary things. The same things I did – the things we all do – in the midst of living an extraordinary life.
I haven’t picked up The Times in many years. Still, I often find myself re-living my day in my head in the column’s intimate style. Perhaps because, even now, being featured in the ‘newspaper of record’ is the greatest indication of success. What writer doesn’t covet the title of Sunday Times Bestseller?
Every Day Begins the Same
In the shower this morning, as I listed yesterday’s actions, I thought, ‘F*ck it. Who needs The Times anyway. This could be a blog post.’
Perhaps if I write it down, it’ll be easier for me to live in the present. The fact that nobody really cares to hear about my day is of no concern.
So here it is.
I wake around 6am. My husband gets up just before me to heat the house and I follow him down around 6.20am. We walk the dog around the block together. The dog is 11 and his legs are bad, so it doesn’t take long. During the winter months, it is cold and dark and miserable. Now, it is light, the sky bathed in pastels of pink and blue. This is our time together. A moment to connect before we head out into the world for the day.
Back home, we feed the pets and have our morning espresso. This ritual began when I brought cute tiled espresso cups back from Portugal, for which we had to go out to buy a machine. It’s funny how rituals and habits are shaped and change over a long relationship. He usually faces the wrath of our 16-year old by having the temerity of waking her for school. When he goes to work at 7am, I diseappear into my little yoga room. He built it for me by separating my daughter’s playroom into two; she’d monopolised the space for long enough. My half is decidedly more zen. There, I do a 30-minute guided kundalini meditation on my Sunrise Sangha yoga app. I started kundalini with Steffy White last summer and subscribing to her lifestyle venture has been life-changing.
Kind Self-Talk
After meditation I try to do some type of journalling. Often, it takes the form of Elizabeth Gilbert’s Letters from Love. Gilbert has done this practise herself for decades and now teaches it on her weekly Substack. Basically, I write to myself as though I am Love, beginning with the question: Dear Love, What would you have me know today? Initially, I found the practise difficult but not now. Starting the day with words of kindness towards myself has profoundly diminished my inner critic. Before I leave my little sanctuary, I pull a couple of cards. Angel and Runes – to give me a little direction for the day.
Then it’s time to take my daughter to school. I do my best not to annoy her with my breathing or by asking too many questions. This morning I was delighted to connect with her during our rendition with Elton John on the radio. She told me I was getting the words wrong and, ‘Mum, why are you trying to harmonise when you can’t even sing in key.’
House to myself, I made chai. My writer friend introduced me to the tea during our weekend writing retreat. Now it reminds me of cozy afternoons of writing in the Brussel’s countryside.
Mid-morning, my sister-in-law and I went for 5-mile run. We’re preparing for the half-marathon we spontaneously signed up for, despite the fact she has never run before. Usually we run loops of our local country park. Today was the cracked pavements and fuel filled air of the streets by my house. Needless to say, I wasn’t fully motivated.
The Reality of Being a Writer
Home, shower, something to eat. Afterwards, I spent an hour or more editing a friend’s manuscript. I’ve had it for almost 2-months now but I keep getting distracted with my own work. I’ve given myself a deadline of the end of the month to finish it. This is also the deadline I have set to complete my own novel.
I have ten chapters left in order to finish this draft. Some are written and in need of a heavy edit, others require completely new content. Today, I began a new chapter and the terror of a blank page is ever present. Each time I write something new it’s as though I am writing for the first time. Every word, every sentence dragged from the pit of my soul. I have to remind myself that this is only a first draft. That having something written, no matter how bad, is a prerequisite to making it pretty down the line.
Last year I was selected to join a Curtis Brown Creative writing course. After 12-weeks, I came away with a lot more writing know how, but more importantly, I came away with a writing group. Every day someone has logged into our Discord group to write. There is no doubt that I am way more productive when I have like-minded people to write alongside.
By the end of the working day, I have a first draft of the chapter. The usual concerns taunt me – You’re dropping all of the balls. This is so bad. Remind me of the plot again? In the past, I would definitely have given up by now. But I’ve had 20-years of giving up. Now, I choose to ignore that voice. Regardless of what this book does or doesn’t do, I will finish it.
To Bed I go
We go to bed early, around 8pm. I’ll sit with my Gua Sha for 10-minutes because, although I don’t want to go down the cosmetic surgery route, I am 47 and I need to do something. Then I read. Last night it was Wuthering Heights for my book club. Usually we read fantasy stories about horny fae males who mate with plucky human women who need to single-handedly save the world. This is quite the departure. After the first chapters I complained about this ‘stupid book’ that I can’t understand. Last night I finally got to that famous quote, ‘Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.’ Now, I kind of get it.
Another mini-argument with my daughter about our mobile phone rules (downstairs before she goes to sleep even though she’s the only teenager in the world not allowed her phone in bed apparently). Then a negotiation about her bedtime (same as every night – it doesn’t change).
Finally to Sleep
Before I go to sleep, I do a 20-minute transcendental meditation. My mind goes off in every direction, blatantly ignoring the chant I’m supposed to repeat in my mind. With a sigh, I eventually give up and lie down. My husband is asleep before his head hits the pillow. I like to think about all of the things I might have done or said wrong that day. How slow of a runner I am. How bad of a mother. My terrible writing. That kind of thing.
Finally asleep, I dream all night long. This, broken only by the multiple trips to the loo after convincing myself for too long that I don’t really need to go.
Basically, I’m living my dream. Every single second of my life, a blessing that I would not forego. How lucky I am.
