So the other day, someone asked me, “What’s a typical day like in the life of Tom Hoover, YA Author?”

And before you ask, no, it wasn’t that kid down the block who asks everybody if they know Batman. And it’s not some ploy just to boost my SEO status.

If it was, I’d have a better answer.

The truth is, writers are just like anyone else—maybe a little more neurotic than your average certified public accountant; maybe not as tough as a car mechanic—but mostly just like you. Look in the mirror, and you see me.

Unless you’re a girl. In which case you’d look in the mirror and scream because you didn’t shave today and that’s giving you kind of a homeless vibe.

Sorry for that and for the nightmares that will follow.

Long story, short, a typical day in the life of Tom Hoover, YA Author, goes something like this:

Morning: My dogs decide when it’s time for me to get up. They have me well trained. They say, “Jump.” I say, “Woof, woof.” Sad, but true. Then they want to be walked and fed—even before I get to be walked and fed. Which strikes me as wrong because none of the bills are addressed to them.

After I have served my furry masters, I am permitted to eat. And have some coffee. Then, work. Books and other things I write don’t write themselves—no matter how much I beg. So I write, or I revise, or I do both. And check social media.

Are you on the edge of your seat or what? How can you contain yourself? How can one human being live through that much excitement?

The cold harsh truth is that writers’ lives are not nearly as thrilling as the stuff we write. Nicholas Sparks, who writes all those sappy romances like The Notebook? He hates everybody and can’t talk to women without an interpreter.

I’m kidding. Made you look!

But let’s get back to the life of Tom Hoover, YA Author.

The afternoon goes pretty much like the morning, except sometimes I run errands. No dinosaurs or monsters or shady mysterious women ever follow me to the grocery store or to the bank. Again, I begged.

After work is when it gets really, really intense. I work out and eat dinner, followed by either video games, movies, or hanging with friends. Sometimes I play golf—though I’ve been told I really just play at golf.

I don’t run through any mazes—unless you count dodging dogs trying to get to the phone. In short, my time has no wrinkles, my attic has no flowers, my chamber has no secrets, and hunger is not a game to me. I do some of my best thinking after twilight, and my stars are innocent. There are no peculiar children here, no ashes or bones in my city, and trust me: you get no special anything if you’re a wallflower.

That’s the story. Writers like me are often outsiders, looking for a separate peace, warring for chocolate, or just some flies to lord over. That’s the real story.

Because the real life of Tom Hoover, YA Author, is locked away up here—taps forehead—waiting to come out.