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.)

The Absolute Madness of Naming Characters

Let’s talk about one of the most ridiculous struggles of writing a book. No, I’m not talking about the part where you stare at the blinking cursor like it personally insulted your ancestors. I’m talking about naming characters. It should be easy, right? Just slap a name on them and move on? Oh, my sweet summer child. If only. See, naming a character is like naming your kid—except worse, because nobody is going to complain if your kid and their cousin both end up being named Liam. But if your main villain is named Liam and you accidentally give the quirky coffee shop owner in book three the same name? Cue the existential crisis. Let’s walk through the madness. The Overthinking Spiral of Doom You start writing, and there’s that moment: your brand-new character walks onto the page, full of potential. All they need is a name. A simple name. Something strong, something fitting, something— Oh no. Nothing sounds right. This one is too complicated. That one is too simple. ...

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Stories Are Everywhere: The Writer’s Endless Inspiration

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