Yesterday, was pub day for my book THE AFFAIR. And as I was knee deep in cobwebs in the back of my basement, sorting through old National Geographic Magazines, I finally realized the difference between being an author and being a writer. The latter is a lot less glamorous.
This is the oh-so-unglamorous day in the life of a writer on publication day: I woke up. Ate two hardboiled eggs, drank a cup of black coffee and sat down at my computer. It’s pretty much what I do every day. Not so glamorous.
I wrote from eight to one, working on the novelization of my play Sister Cities. I took three breaks; one to walk my dogs, one to stretch my back and one to check my emails. I got the requisite congratulations on pub day emails from my agent, manager and publisher (only my mother forgot). Still not particularly glamorous.
I then had lunch: a tuna salad sandwich with vegenaise and pepperoncini. After lunch, I cleaned my basement, which was in desperate need of sorting out. I try to exercise an hour a day, healthy mind/healthy body sort of thing and while I’m committed to Pilates on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and cycling on weekends, on Tuesdays and Thursdays I get creative. And I figured clearing out ten years of National Geographic magazines would count as heavy lifting. But as I was covered from head to toe in a cocktail of dust, dirt and cobwebs trying not to have an asthma attack, I wondered how Danielle Steel spends her publication day. I imagine it’s drinking expensive champagne at some exotic restaurant overlooking the French Riviera with her adoring posse and paparazzi. My champagne was cold coffee which I couldn’t heat up because my microwave is on the fritz, my posse were my two greyhounds who watched me lug magazines like I was insane and my paparazzi was my mother who had just received her copy of the book and finally called.
I took a long hot bath, got into my work clothes…which are yoga pants as I have officially reached the wrong side of forty year old women who wear yoga pants every day even though they never do yoga — and got back to the computer. I went through my emails and enjoyed the adulation from friends and spent some time working on social media tweeting and faceboking and pinteresting to promote the book. I scanned a few lovely reviews by talented bloggers who are the Internet’s version of Michiko Kakutani and Charles Isherwood and worked for the next several hours on a project I am ghostwriting.
Not quite the glamorous life of an author. But certainly the satisfying life of a writer.