Saturday morning chores were routine for me. First thing, the lawn needed to be mowed and garden beds weeded and dead-headed. Then the house needed to be cleaned. When I started my writing career, while teaching high school, Saturdays became my day for writing. Sundays were reserved for the yard work and house cleaning. And when I quit teaching to write fulltime, this routine was replaced with another: exercise, then writing, with yard work and house cleaning reserved for later in the day. It served me well through more than 150 books. Recently, however, I’ve lost my routine. Writing more research-intense books and a change in publishing that shifts the mind-deadening details of indexing, flap and catalog copy, and source notes to writers has reduced my output to one title per year–if I’m lucky. Thank you, Lesa Cline-Ransome for reminding me of the value of routines and sticking to them.
I owe much of my writing career to Saturday mornings that began with frosted flakes cereal and cartoons. My father was a stickler for Saturday morning chores. Chores done promptly after breakfast and thoroughly each and every week. Friends would ring the doorbell or, in my teenage years, call to ask if I was ready to go shopping in downtown Boston. “Not done with my chores yet,” meant they had to wait just a little bit longer.
When the rest of my family grumbled about chores and cleaning, I said very little, preferring the look and feel of swept floors and the smell of Old English furniture polish. This weekly routine continued long after my brother and sister had each left for college and I was the last child left. I believe it was the simple act of Saturday morning chores that lent itself to an appreciation of routine.
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