In the 1990 psychological thriller Misery, there’s a scene that tells us something about the main character, Paul Sheldon (played by James Caan).
We’re shown that he’s checked into The Silver Creek Lodge in Colorado, and he’s sitting at a table, typing on a manual typewriter. A typed manuscript is piled on the table next to him.
Paul stops typing and slowly removes the final page from the typewriter.
He lays it on the table and writes in hand, “THE END.”
Three items are in the room with him: A bottle of Dom Perignon, an unlit match, and a cigarette.
Paul lights the cigarette, pours himself a glass of the champagne, and, after making a slight toasting gesture, drinks, smiles, and smokes with satisfaction.
We learn later in the film that someone has been following him — his Number One Fan — the same Number One Fan who reveals to Paul that she knows he always checks himself into the same room of the same motel, and carries out the same little ritual.
Paul Sheldon is a writer with a routine.
I can’t relate to having a Number One Fan — specifically, the crazed, hammer-wielding type who is prepared to strap me to a bed and hobble me for murdering the main character of my book.
But I can relate to having a routine — of wanting everything just so.
A Rhythm That Keeps Me Sane
I’m in the ‘early to bed, early to rise’ camp, which means I’m often in bed by 10 pm, and up by 7 am.
I like to start work at 8 am, but that often depends on the condition my three whirlwinds have left the kitchen in, which can mean a start as late as 9 am if they’ve been in a tremendous rush.
I continue until 1 pm for a light thirty-minute lunch break, and finish at 5 pm to prepare dinner for when the gang begins trailing home again.
I guard this routine fiercely and don’t tolerate interruptions lightly.
At my busiest, I have been known to ignore the door, the telephone, and even members of my household if they return home unexpectedly.
(Sorry, guys. I love you dearly. But after 5 pm).
I also have a habit of scribbling notes in multiple notebooks. After finding The One with That Crucial Note I made That Time, it sits on the table in front of me with a couple of black pens. Why a couple? I honestly don’t know. Something about it feels scholarly, as if two pens signal a person who knows exactly what she’s doing.
Once they’re settled next to me, my writing or editing can begin.
A Dress Code That Keeps Me Presentable
After a mishap involving a mischievous toddler found us both in our PJs on the wrong side of a locked front door, I vowed never to be caught short ever again.
That was fifteen years ago. I’ve dressed for work ever since — and nicely, too. Comfy trousers, a matching top, earrings, perfume, and, if a client wants to jump on a call, a smidge of lipstick.
When I look good, I feel good. More importantly, my clients and publisher expect me to meet tight deadlines, so a key part of my working productively is feeling ready for the task at hand.
The ritual of dressing nicely signals to my brain that it’s time to focus and be productive.
Sounds and Scenes That Keep Me Writing
There must be music, and it must be instrumental — otherwise I’ll be distracted by the lyrics — delivered through my noise-cancelling earphones so the music truly surrounds and envelopes me.
This version of La Vie en Rose never fails to transport me to the elegant, historic brasserie, Le Grand Colbert in Paris, which I first saw featured in one of my favourite rom-coms, Something’s Gotta Give, starring Jack Nicholson, Diane Keaton, and Keanu Reeves.
When I’m there, I’m seated at a table for one, under one of its tall windows with scarlet velvet curtains, typing discreetly on my tablet.
“What is she doing?” Whispers Jacques, the waiter — in perfect French, of course.
“Ignore her,” replies Rémy, the maître d’, “She’s a writer.”
Jacques looks excited. “Really?” He asks, ready to rush off and tell his colleagues they have a writer in the house. “What are we talking about? Romance? Mystery? Dark Fantasy?”
Rémy rolls his eyes. “Non. The history and theory of word formation from the nineteenth century to its development throughout the ages.”
Jacques looks confused. “Huh?”
Rémy loses his patience. The brasserie’s filling up. There’s work to be done, tables to be cleared, and guests to be seated. This woman, sitting in the corner typing quietly, tips well, but she’s a woman of no consequence. Completely forgettable in fact.
“For goodness’ sake, Jacques,” sighs Rémy, “She works for academics. Sometimes she’s a ghostwriter, sometimes she edits. Today, she’s a ghost, and she’s writing about something that frankly looks completely boring. Now, can we continue, s’il vous plaît?”
“Yes, boss,” replies Jacques, giving me a final wistful look before heading off into the kitchen.
I ignore the whispering and furtive glances and continue typing for as long as my glorious playlist will allow me.
Or at least until one of those pesky ads rudely jolts me back to my living room.
Snacks and Distractions That Keep Me Going
No day can run smoothly without a sturdy mug to hold the hopeful intention of keeping me focused — a steady stream of strong brew tea — and because I like to graze, I keep a small dish of fruit, nuts, and squares of dark chocolate next to the kettle.
This does two things. It forces me to get off my behind to walk to the kitchen, which convinces me — if no one else — that I’ve clocked at least a few steps for the day, and it means I can pause and gaze out of the window into the garden for a healthy green distraction.
Snack time is also the only time I allow myself to check my phone for messages or other notifications, so this little ritual feels especially virtuous. Well, virtuous enough.
……
When I close my laptop, there’s no Dom Perignon or dramatic flourish to celebrate the end of my day.
But there is the quiet satisfaction of a day that has moved a little further along.
Most days, that’s good enough.