I must be such a disappointment to the writer gods, dear readers

Well, I'm simply not writerly enough.

Sure, I keep erratic hours. I usually fall asleep between three and six A.M. (if I'm lucky) and usually wake up some time quite late in the day. Okay, so there's that, and yeah, okay, I have trouble with insomnia, I get moody, and my spirits do sometimes get quite low.

And fine, so there are days when I write about five thousand words and feel flushed and exhausted, and then there are days when, like Sherlock Holmes, I slump in my chair and hate the very sight of a blank page.

But this simply isn't enough. My dears, why don't I need a daily fix? Why do I drink something cold and refreshing like Asda's very own bitter lemon instead of the required gallons of strong coffee? Why do I drink sedate centimentres of ice cold Baileys just because it tastes good, when, really, I should be tottering around in a perpetual drunken stupor? 

Why am I not a haphazard alcoholic, or anti-social drug addict, or dismally depressed young woman who wears peculiar fashions like a top hat to the supermarket?

I'm, quite frankly, a poor excuse for that exalted position of A Writer.

Doubtful? Take a look at this.

It tells me everything I need to know about A Writer's Habits.


*whispers*

Or maybe, just maybe, writers don't have to be any of the above. We don't have to be Agatha Christie (much as I love her), Truman Capote, or J.D. Salinger (both of whom I wouldn't want to be anyway). We can be fashion-loving, sometimes moody-often cheerful, book-obsessed types who like watching a bit of Sex and the City now and then.