The Glamorous Life of a Writer (Or, Mostly Just Staring at a Screen)

There’s a persistent rumor floating around that writers live thrilling, adventure-filled lives. Perhaps it’s all the dramatic author portraits on book jackets—moody, windswept, staring off into the distance as if contemplating the fate of the world. Perhaps it’s the movies, where writers are always dashing off to Paris to write the next great novel in a charming café (suspiciously never interrupted by spotty Wi-Fi or overpriced croissants).

I hate to break it to you, but real writing? Not quite so cinematic.

In reality, my writing days mostly involve staring intensely at my screen, willing the words to appear through sheer force of will. Occasionally, I engage in deep philosophical debates with myself—such as whether my protagonist should turn left or right down a hallway (the fate of the fictional world depends on it). And let’s not forget the highly intellectual process of naming characters, which can take hours because somehow every single name I think of is either the name of someone I know or sounds vaguely like a Bond villain.

Of course, there’s also the important research phase. People assume this means traveling to exciting locations or uncovering ancient secrets in dusty archives. The truth? It’s mostly me frantically Googling, “How long does it take to dig a shallow grave?” and then clearing my search history just in case.

Then there’s the emotional rollercoaster of writing itself. You invest your heart and soul into characters who don’t actually exist—yet you find yourself deeply, irrationally concerned about their well-being. I have spent entire afternoons agonizing over whether my protagonist should forgive someone or hold a grudge. I have caught myself muttering, “No, no, no, that’s out of character!”—as if I am not, in fact, the one creating these imaginary people and their imaginary choices.

Let’s not even get started on writer’s block. Writer’s block is like an old frenemy who shows up at the worst times, plopping down on my metaphorical couch and refusing to leave. “Oh, you need to finish that chapter today? That’s cute,” it whispers, before offering up the sudden urge to alphabetize my spice rack.

And yet, despite all this, I wouldn’t trade this bizarre, screen-staring, character-obsessing life for anything. Because sometimes, amidst the overcaffeination and existential crises, magic happens. A scene comes together just right. A character surprises me. A reader tells me my story made them laugh or cry or stay up way too late.

That’s why I keep doing it. Not for the glamorous writing life (because we’ve established that’s a myth), but for the love of storytelling. For the thrill of bringing something new into the world, even if it means staring at my screen like a deranged owl for hours on end.

So if you see me out in public, looking lost in thought, just know—I’m not ignoring you. I’m just wondering if my fictional villain would wear argyle socks.