Literary husband applications are open | The AuDHD creative routine

Now six months into writing my first novel (the first I plan to publish, anyway), every day without fail I sit at my desk and write a bare minimum of 250 and bare maximum of 1,250 words. I used to do this first thing in the morning, always making this book my highest priority. Nothing else could happen those few paragraphs were born.

Which is probably why I woke up one morning the first week of 2026 and realized every flat surface in my apartment was covered in a thin layer of dust. I hadn’t deep-cleaned my fridge since the day I moved in a 14 months ago. The bottom drawer of my armoire was still broken, the last few picture frames still unhung. Last night I had a chocolate chip cookie for dinner.

Every week I buy one cucumber. Almost every week, I end up throwing out a rotting cucumber.

Dearest reader, I am but a lowly neurodivergent, doing her best. Despite having the same 24 hours as my clients, my brother, and Beyoncé, I rarely manage to have a “perfect” workday where I can write my book, update my blog, finish my freelance work, eat healthy, hit the gym, meditate, read, socialize, enjoy a hobby that doesn’t involve screens, and get at least six hours of sleep. (And if you’re reading this blog, I’m 99% sure you can’t, either.)

How are my friends doing it? They’re sharing the load with their parents or partners. (RIP parents, and dating is exhausting.) My clients? Hiring housekeepers. (With what money, babe?)
What about veteran writers?

They all had sla—I mean…wives.

34-year-old Leo Tolstoy married 18-year-old Sofia Behrs, also a writer. Her young life was squandered with childrearing, housekeeping, and free labor, thanklessly editing and copying his works time and time again. When Leo died, Sofia was left with nothing but a diary he kept in secret…much of it complaining about her.

I’m not saying I want that kind of literary wife. I just can’t help but wonder—if I had somebody cooking my food, watering my plants, organizing my tasks for the day, maybe then I would feel a little more put together and…

…Ah. A butler. I’m describing a butler.

If only I had a butler, maybe then I could write in peace.

I need a routine (and maybe so do you).

Applications for a butler and/or literary husband are open. While I wait for candidates to come pouring in, I'm on my own.

In hopes of wrangling my executive dysfunction, I’ve been reading my favorite neurodivergent YouTuber Jessica McCabe’s How to ADHD. Haven't blazed through a book this big, this fast, in ages. Currently I'm playing around with different strategies that motivate me to get "boring" things done.

One is to make overwhelming tasks, no matter how simple, as small as humanly possible, and then accomplish one teeny tiny task in between the big, fun, interesting tasks.

I love writing my novel. I can write anytime, anywhere. Also, my apartment is wrecked (yay, depression). Instead of looking around after my writing session at all of the...everything that must be done, I have a tiny list of little things I can do before or after writing. Before sitting down, take out the trash. (Stretch goal: putting a new bag in the trash bin!)

Most of the time this incredibly simple trick makes me do the things that must be done. But not always. I have an emergency toolkit of tricks like these now, just in case.

I let the "boring" tasks revolve around an enjoyable task I couldn't live without.

I didn't think I could even stick to a routine until I started writing my own book. Post-burnout I could barely get out the door on time for my soul-crushing marketing gigs. Once I started doing something I actually enjoyed, something I found immediate intrinsic motivation from, structuring the rest of my day around that became as natural as breathing.

I no longer roll out of bed and get straight to writing; now I have a routine, like an adult. I keep a bullet journal with a habit tracker that reminds me of the basic human maintenance tasks required before I’m free to do the fun stuff—and almost always, I do at least two or three before noon.

On difficult “fuzzy brain” days, I even dangle little rewards over my head for accomplishing boring tasks. Like training a puppy.

It works. It’s fun. I like it. And for the first time since I moved here, my apartment is clean (enough).

Still, on days like these, where I’m running on four hours of sleep, planning to do two hours of training and three hours of client work, with a headache…I yearn for a literary husband. Or a butler. Or both.

Obligatory Paris Paloma drop for these trying times: