My schedule is pretty flexible, which is usually great because it allows me to shift things around based how beautiful the weather is, what time I ended up in bed or which episodes of what downloaded overnight. Most of the time, I manage to keep things pretty balanced, but then there are the times I’m working to a deadline (either for my editor, or like now, one of my agents), and all of my good habits disappear.

Say hello to Zombie Me.

My roommate pointed me to this great article about freelancing, which wisely says, “it’s critical for your mental health to leave the house at least once a day and interact with real, live humans — even if you are only talking about Starbucks “. I read aforementioned article at 5pm yesterday, still in my pajamas, having stared blankly at my screen and worked through for ten hours that day. Yes, not good. I used to believe in the café version of writing life. Who wouldn’t want such an idyllic work-day? Get up, take laptop, stroll to a local spot full of interesting artsy types and then sit, working productively all day, fuelled by baked goods and vegan salad… Unfortunately, it doesn’t really work out that way for me. My café routine is more like: get up; eat something; check mail and blogs; look for something to wear; realise that I need to do laundry; put laundry in; take a shower; realise I still need to wear something; assemble an outfit of available clean clothes way too formal for mooching around a café; check mail and blogs; have some early lunch; leave; arrive at café and set up; check mail and blogs (it’s been a whole fifteen minutes!); buy drinks; gaze at cakes; gaze at cute men; gaze briefly at my work-in-progress; gaze at cakes again… You get the picture. It’s like I’m doomed to be either a productive, unwashed, anti-social zombie or a fragrant, friendly girl who never hits her daily word-count. The choice!

On a brighter note, I had a great weekend that featured my first Prom. Yes, it was a post-ironic hipster fashion erotic zine event, but still: Prom! There were streamers and lights and dance-cards and nothing but slow-dances all night. See, being English, I never had a real Prom. There were a couple of formal dances when I was in school, but they were always boat party events; I decided that since I wasn’t a good swimmer, being trapped in a confined space with so many people I hated and surrounded by water wasn’t exactly the recipe for a night of fun and frolics. I also went to one formal ball at Oxford, which took place in the dead of winter—outside. I was invited by a boy with whom I’d been involved in one of those ‘is something more going to happen?’ back-and-forths for literally months so I figured that The Most Amazing Ballgown In The World would decide it one way or the other (floor-length, fitted black satin, like something Catherine Zeta-Jones would wear to the Oscars). It did, he didn’t.

The lesson here? Never cook garlic-lemon roasted chicken for anyone you’re not already making out with!