When I Was a More Productive Writer… With a Full-Time Job?!

So - here's a story that will make you shake your head, and possibly grin into your coffee.....

There was once a young(ish) writer—me—who had a dream. A dream of becoming a full-time author. And back in those days, when I was working a “normal” job with real pants and scheduled lunch breaks, I wrote like my life depended on it. I was a writing ninja. A stealth scribe. A literary outlaw with a contraband notebook shoved between HR memos and leftover Post-Its.

I mean, I was ON FIRE.

Every time I had five minutes to spare—waiting in the breakroom for the microwave, parked outside the vet’s office, pretending to be in a “conference call”—out came the notebook. Words were flying. Characters were developing. Mysteries were unraveling. People thought I was quietly journaling. Nope. I was busy plotting a suspicious death behind the bakery while eating a stale granola bar.

Fast forward to today, where writing is my full-time job.

And… well.

Now I start my day with social media, because of course I do. Gotta engage the audience. Gotta keep the algorithms happy. Gotta post something witty with just the right mix of clever + mysterious + hashtagable. Then I film a short video. Then I post the video. Then I check the comments on the video. Then I remember I haven’t actually WRITTEN ANYTHING today.

Oh, the irony.

Now, writing requires... planning. Scheduling. Trickery. I have to parent myself like a toddler with finger paints. I set alarms. I bribe myself with snacks. I say things like, “You can go outside and play with the dog after you’ve finished this chapter, young lady.”

Because if I don’t, here's what happens:

Me: “I’m going to write for TWO HOURS straight. I’m focused. I’m ready. I’m caffeinated. Let’s do this!”

Also me, 7 minutes later: “I’ll just take the dog out for 15 minutes... just 15. Then I’ll write. I’ll be so inspired by all that fresh air.”

Spoiler: I end up gardening, reorganizing my spice rack, and pondering life choices while pulling weeds.

So now? I stick to what works.

I treat writing like I treated it when it wasn’t my main gig. I guard it like treasure. I carve out blocks of time, even if the first five minutes are just me blinking at the blinking cursor. I make sure I’m sitting down. I say, “Write, woman. Write like you're hiding from your boss again.”

Because if I don’t prioritize the writing... it’s very easy to let everything else pretend to be work.

And let’s be real: Writing is work. It’s glorious, magical, occasionally soul-crushing work.

But what I’ve learned from this twisty little career path is this: Hustle looks different for everyone. I used to hustle in secret. Now I hustle with to-do lists and a very judgmental cat watching me from the windowsill.

So tell me, fellow creatives—what do you do to outwit the procrastination monster?

Let’s share our weird rituals. I know you have them. (Don’t make me feel alone in this.)

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