This is not going to be one of those writerly essays where I describe my magical morning routine at a beautiful reclaimed-wood desk facing the sea, sipping tea from an artisanal mug, waxing poetic over the feeling of a pen hitting paper, the words effortlessly flowing. To be totally candid, right now, those sorts of posts make me want to throw my laptop out the window. While I am a big journaler on paper, most of my book writing happens on my laptop on my couch, late at night, ideally with a nice glass of red wine. I don’t want to romanticize the process because it’s that: a process. It’s work! Hard work that I mostly enjoy, but still . . . work. And sometimes, when I read those romantic, cozy posts about writing, I feel bad about my own process. Aren’t I supposed to bound out of bed at 6 a.m. to write? My brain doesn’t fully wake up until 9, and when that happens, I tend to jump right into my “real” work