In interviews people often ask me to give them a blow-by-blow description of my routines, so a few weeks ago I took notes throughout the course of a fairly typical day.  Personally I think my fiction makes for far better reading —after all, fiction can have plots and involve people who are more interesting than I feel myself to be.  However, people are always asking about this...

6:45 a.m.  Get out of bed.  Light the gas heater in the bedroom and put my daytime corset nearby to warm up.  Go downstairs to the kitchen, light the kitchen lamp.  Light the gas burner, put the kettle on. 
 
7:05  Notice I can see my breath in the kitchen.  Pack my husband Gabriel's lunch while he gets ready for work upstairs.
 
7:12  Sweep up crumbs from slicing bread, add them to the crumbs jar.  (Crumbs from the crumb jar are very handy for bulking up soups, making crusts for things like macaroni and cheese, etc.)
 
7:15  The water in the kettle is boiling; turn the gas off.  Go upstairs and brush teeth.
 
7:20  Return to kitchen, kiss Gabriel goodbye and tell him to have a nice day.  Go into parlor, wave to him again through the window as he's leaving.  Go back into kitchen, turn out the lamp, bring kettle up to bedroom.
 
7:25  Light one of the bedroom lamps, put it in the wall sconce by my washstand.  Pour water from my ewer into my washbasin and add enough hot water from the kettle to bring it up to a tolerable temperature.  Get washed up.
 
7:45  Get dressed: daytime corset, pantalets, shift, cotton petticoat, quilted petticoat, wool teagown, long wool socks.
 
7:47  Bring kettle back down to kitchen, fill.  Light gas burner and put the kettle back on.
 
7:50  Back upstairs.  Toss out washwater, wipe out basin.  Move lamp from wall sconce to vanity dresser.  Put up hair.  Put on shoes (cozy carriage boots.)
 
8:00  Turn out gas heater and lamp in bedroom.  Leave bed to air.  Put on chatelaine.
 
8:01  Back down to kitchen.  Kettle not boiling yet; turn gas up higher.  There's just barely enough daylight to see in the kitchen now; I debate lighting the kitchen lamp but decide to save the fuel.  Empty the driptray from the icebox.  Eat some tinned fruit for breakfast. 
            In the nineteenth-century the first mail of the day in many cities was delivered around breakfast time, so I check my e-mail.  (Incidentally: by 1905 Baltimore and Philadelphia each had seven mail deliveries per day, most of New York had nine, and Philadelphia had five.)
           
8:15  Kettle boils: make tea.
 
8:17  Stop to notice how pretty the morning light is against the wall.
 
8:18  Finish making tea.
 
8:24  Check thermometer in parlor: 48 degrees.  No wonder I'm cold.  Go back to kitchen.  Finish eating; while doing so, check author profile and sales stats on my fiction.  (This latter is, like the e-mail, the closest equivalent of the old physical business mail.)
 
8:35  Bring tea into my writing den.  Fix the foot of my chair that always comes loose.  Read while drinking tea.  One of the characters in the book I'm currently writing is a ship's captain, so I've been reading nineteenth-century maritime books for background.  One of the other characters is a school teacher, so I've also been studying a whole collection of the school texts which were used in Washington Territory in 1883, when the story takes place.

9:00  Finish tea.  Turn out heater in den.  Clean tea things, brush teeth.  Make bed.  Clean out stove in kitchen, lay fresh fire (don't light it yet).  Notice we're low on kindling and I'll have to gather more.  Check lamps: fill reservoirs, clean chimneys and tend the wicks on one bedroom lamp, big lamp from my den, my finger lamp and the porch lantern.  Fill and tend the wick of the kitchen lamp but don't bother washing it, as it is still pretty clean.  Fill the reservoir of the kerosene heater from my den.  Put all the lamps back in their proper places.  Sweep kitchen, take out trash.  Whistle badly off-key to myself while performing kitchen tasks.
 
10:20 Re-light heater in den, settle down at my desk with one of my antique furs around my neck.  Work on my story.  
     Transcribe and review what I'd written in my notebook yesterday, make a few changes.  Put the computer away and continue writing by hand in my notebook (with a pencil so I don't get ink on my fur).  Occasionally look up at the antique photographs which I've used as inspiration for various characters.

12:10 p.m.  Sharpen pencil again, turn out heater in den.  Bring canvas work dress into den to warm it up before I change into it to gather kindling.  Go back to writing.

12:30  Decide it's time to gather kindling.  Take off chatelaine and leave it on my desk.  Change from wool tea gown to canvas work dress (keep all the same underthings on).  Notice canvas work dress wants mending, but not urgently.  Move contents of purse into my vasculum, which is easier to carry in the woods than a purse.  Change out cozy boots for sturdy work boots.  Put sweater over work dress.  Put jacket over sweater.  Put on hat, scarf and gloves.  Put a notebook and pencil in my kindling-gathering basket.  (A writer always has writing tools, because anything is potential material!)
 
12:45  Eat a piece of cheese.
 
12:46  Go out with my basket to gather kindling.  Pick up sticks and dead branches brought down by recent storms.
 
12:55  Pause to watch two squirrels fighting.  Write about it in my notebook.  I have no idea if this will ever make it into a story, but one never knows what might prove useful eventually.
 
1:05  See a woodpecker.  Notice his rapping reminds me of a percussionist beating out a tune.  Likewise write this down.
 
1:07  Feel particularly pleased with myself when I find some dead madrona branches.  Reflect that madrona is the anthracite coal of wood —it is hard to get going, but it burns slow and long.
 
1:20  Return home.  Transfer kindling from my basket to the box on our porch.  While still dressed to go out, walk to the corner market for flour and molasses.
 
1:40  Arrive back home.  Light the fire I set up in the stove earlier.
 
1:41  Take off outdoor things, change back into wool teagown.  Leave on work boots for now.  Put canvas work dress in mending basket.
 
1:46  Shift one of the oven dampers.  The fire has caught but the stove won't be hot enough to cook anything for quite some time.  Light the gas burner and use it to heat up leftovers for lunch.  Put away the flour and molasses I just bought.
 
1:54  While the leftovers are still heating, feed the sourdough starter I use to make bread.
 
2:00  Eat lunch. 
 
2:07  Put coffee on stove.  Keep eating.  Realize I haven't put my chatelaine back on yet; get it from my desk, hang it from my waist.
 
2:24  Finish lunch, wash dishes.  Contemplate plots for stories while doing so.  Notice that the air in the kitchen is still cold enough to make my hands (extra warm from the hot water I just used to wash the dishes) steam slightly.  This strikes me as entertaining, so I write it down.
 
2:30  Take coffee off stove, put it aside to settle.
 
2:31  Finish drying dishes, put them away.  Add wood to fire, close one of the dampers on the stove.  Bring in extra wood for later.  Whistle off-key some more.
 
2:37  Notice cobwebs on ceiling, sweep them down with the broom.  Reflect that when I was a child if anyone had told me that living in a Victorian house involves sweeping the ceiling, this information would not have in any way dissuaded me from my lifelong dream.  It would, however, have surprised me quite a bit.
 
2:40  Pour coffee into mug, add cream.  Retreat to den.  Re-light heater.
 
2:50  Back to my story.

(Slideshow: scenes in the series.  ​For more, see Tales of Chetzemoka.)

2:55 Notice that the cold has made my hands so dry and chapped that one of my fingers is bleeding.  It's not enough to make a mess though, so I dab it with a handkerchief and keep writing.  Make a mental note to put skin cream on my hands before bed tonight.
 
3:30  Coffee gone cold.  Bring it and my notebook out to the kitchen, put my enamelware mug straight onto the woodstove to heat it.  Notice the fire has almost died; open one of the dampers on the stove and add some small pieces of wood which will catch easily.  Write.
 
3:38  Take coffee off stove.  The fire is roaring now; I add a large log and shut the top damper on the stove, close the bottom damper partway.
 
3:40  Go back to den with coffee.  Turn out kerosene heater to save fuel.  Write.
 
3:50  Have a question about terminology, look it up in one of our antique books.  While looking it up, find a marvelous poem in the same book.  Mark the page.  Find the term I'd wanted, write it down.  Open my commonplace book to a blank page and copy out the poem.  My commonplace book is mostly just for personal inspiration, but about once a month I'll go through it, pick out poems or quotes that I think other people would find inspiration from, type them up, and set them up in the queue of posts for my author profile.

4:07  Finish coffee, brush teeth.
 
4:12  Return to den.  Put my fur around my neck again and keep writing.  Occasionally pet my fur meditatively.
 
4:30  Reflect that dusk comes early at this time of year: as soon as the sun sinks below the mountains the light starts to fade.  It's also getting chilly in my den again.  Light a kerosene lamp, which will add both light and heat to the room.  Move myself from my desk to my rocking chair, which is near the lamp.  Keep writing.
 
5:15  Light my fingerlamp so I can see what I'm doing as I move about the house.  Add wood to the kitchen fire.  Pour myself a mug of hot water from the kettle which has been on the back of the stove keeping warm.  Return to den.  Put fingerlamp in wall sconce.  Keep writing.

​In a seaport town in the late 19th-century Pacific Northwest, a group of friends find themselves drawn together —by chance, by love, and by the marvelous changes their world is undergoing.  In the process, they learn that the family we choose can be just as important as the ones we're born into.  Join their adventures in
​The Tales of Chetzemoka

***
Incidentally, anyone interested in the superior staying power of paper over digital technologies should read the story of Britain's Domesday Book. The paper version made by Norman monks in the year 1086 is still useable and in fine condition.  The digital version made in 1986 at a cost of 2.5 billion British pounds is now obsolete and unreadable.  For more information, please see this article: https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2002/mar/03/research.elearning