Wake up at six to two sets of alarms, torn between another forty-five minutes of sleep and fifteen minutes of writing or a full hour of writing.
I hit the snooze.
At ten after six, the snooze alarm blares. I shut it off, blurt a few choice swear words, and get up, feeling so tired that I could probably sleep for a week or two.
I drink a cup of lukewarm coffee (made it the night before and forgot to put it in the carafe), go to the bathroom, and then sit down to write by six twenty.
Seven o'clock comes too quickly, for I only wrote two pages.
Now is the time to get the kids up, make their breakfast, tame arguments that seem to crop up for no reason except for one kid looking at another (because what else are they going to look at?).
By seven forty, the kids are out the door and I can finally get back to writing.
But no, the wife is stiring awake and is asking me constant questions, and is pissed when I don't give her the answers she's seeking.
Eight thirty rolls around and I finally say what the hell and start getting ready for work.
Spend both breaks and the half-hour lunch editing the hard copy of my novel or writing a new story long-hand in a tablet.
Back at home for supper finds me putting out the same arguments from the kids as before, except now their mother throws in her two cents and demands that I do something to stop it.
Between nine-thirty and ten, the kids are finally asleep. I sit down to write--and do it for a half-hour or so and crank out a handful of pages--and then start to fall asleep.
I set the alarm for six and promise myself that tomorrow I'll write more.