The Coffee Table Confessional: A Day in the Life of a Writer Obsessed with Love and Everything In Between

I’ll admit it—my days don’t exactly resemble the glamorous working-woman montage from a romantic comedy. There are no perfectly timed cab rides, no productive brainstorming sessions in sunlit corner cafes, and certainly no meet-cutes with a brooding stranger who orders the same double-shot oat milk latte I “ironically forgot” to pick up at the counter. My life? It's a whirlwind of sticky notes, jasmine tea, and moments that could best be described as a thoughtful chaos. But somehow, within that chaos, I’ve crafted a routine that keeps me steady, inspired, and endlessly curious about the human connection. So, here’s what a typical day in my life looks like—complete with quirks, rituals, and a love for romance in all its messy, heart-expanding forms.

Morning: Love Letters to Myself Before the World Wakes Up

My mornings start earlier than I’d like to admit, mostly because my body has decided that aging means waking up at 6:00 a.m., no matter how firmly I tell it otherwise. Before my feet even touch the floor, I do what I call my “morning mantra moment.” It’s quick, but clutch—a simple reminder that today deserves my full participation. Sometimes it’s something I’ve borrowed from Audre Lorde (“If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive.”), and sometimes it’s advice from TikTok dressed up as ancient wisdom. Either way, this tiny practice reminds me who I am before the demands of the day try to tell me otherwise.

By 7:00 a.m., I’m in my kitchen, lips pressed to a mug of jasmine tea—the sophisticated sister of coffee, though I’ll dabble in espresso on particularly courageous days. There’s a record spinning (usually Sade, because no one whispers romance into a room quite like her), and I spend exactly 15 minutes journaling. This isn’t a place for flowery prose—rather, it’s a dumping ground for all the strange half-thoughts that have been clanging around since dawn. “Are second dates always this awkward?” scrawled next to “Should I try baking bread this weekend?” might look chaotic to the observer, but these scribbles are often where my stories are born—including ones about tender first kisses, catastrophic breakups, or why everyone deserves someone who understands the genius of ‘90s R&B.

Confession: In the silence of those moments, I sometimes sneak a scroll through texts or social media, the digital equivalent of walking into the emotional coffee shop of my life. Are there potential meet-cutes in my DMs? Is anyone subtweeting about a tension-filled “accidental brush of hands” situation? People-watching via group chats always delivers fresh inspiration.

Mid-Morning Magic: Writing, but First, a Stage-Setting Routine

The late Dallas morning finds me nested at my writing desk—a gorgeous vintage piece gifted by my mother. I suspect this was her way of reminding me that meaningful work deserves a sturdy foundation. (Classic Mom move.) Perched atop the desk is a photo of my grandmother, a woman who swept through life like a poet and loved like a warrior. Her wisdom grounds me, particularly when I’m attempting to tease an unwieldy sentence into submission.

But before I write even one word, there are rituals. First, the playlist. For scenes that speak to longing and companionship, it’s Aretha Franklin; for moments charged with tension, I turn to Nina Simone. The right song is like the secret handshake I need to enter a scene. Then, I set the stage: a lit candle (jasmine again, because I’m nothing if not consistent), my notebook beside the keyboard, and a few gummy bears, each neatly aligned as though they’re co-conspirators to the muse. Don’t @ me. It works.

Between 10:00 and noon is when I’m most productive, hammering out dialogue, fleshing out page-turning plot twists, or writing precisely 3.5 sentences before spiraling into an existential crisis about comma placement. Writing is not linear—it’s like dating that person who always keeps you guessing. But eventually, I lock in, chasing ideas like butterflies flitting just at the edge of my vision.

Afternoon: A Mash-Up of Deadlines and Daydreaming

By early afternoon, I need a change of scenery, so I pull out my laptop and head to one of my favorite nearby spots—whether it’s a trendy Dallas café or, on sunnier days, a park bench with just enough breeze to make me feel cinematic. There’s something inherently romantic about working outside, even if it’s just answering emails or outlining article pitches. (Speaking of which: why does WiFi never work when you need it most? Truly the toxic relationship I can’t quit.)

This is also the time of day when I lean into my favorite love language: food. Lunch becomes not just sustenance, but a chance to reflect on the importance of creating small joys in a big world. Whether I’m savoring something carb-forward from a local bakery, or basking in the wonder of a perfectly seasoned shrimp taco, this is my moment to connect with life’s pleasures. I refuse to believe anything gets resolved over sad desk salads—just like nothing good ever happens after you text “wyd?” at 11:23 p.m.

Side note: Living in a big city means you run into romantic energy everywhere—lovebirds splitting a croissant, someone composing a “sorry I ghosted” text at the next table over. These micro-moments are rich soul food for someone like me. Each stolen glance and shy smile is a masterpiece in progress.

Evening: Unwinding on My Own Terms

My evenings are about recalibration—which is a fancy way of saying, “How do I switch off for a bit without doom scrolling through celebrity breakups on Twitter?” After a quick yoga session (generously interpreting quick to mean 15 minutes of stretching), I set aside time to read—usually fiction or poetry. Right now, I’m rereading Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon. It reminds me that storytelling is a form of appreciation for people’s complexities, their joys, and yes, their mistakes.

On nights when I’m not consumed by deadlines or literary events, I’ve been known to text a friend to plan impromptu wine-and-movie nights. (Pro-tip for anyone dating: if they can’t debate the finer points of Love & Basketball with you, are they even relationship material?) But if the mood strikes, I might indulge in something slightly more self-indulgent, like a solo glass of wine on my apartment balcony, where the glittering Dallas skyline is the backdrop and the soundtrack is all mine—usually Al Green crooning into the night.

I remind myself that love and relationships aren’t just about “waiting for the one.” They’re about showing up for yourself. Taking the time to be someone you’d want to date or befriend. I joke that romance is my brand, but the truth is, knowing how to fall for the world around you is a kind of superpower—one I try to tap into daily.

Late Night: Reflect, Recharge, Repeat

Right before bed, I take stock of the day. What did I learn? How did I show up? What surprised me? These aren’t rhetorical questions, and no, I don’t always have the answers (who does?). Life—and love—rarely gives us tidy resolutions, but it does offer us the chance to keep showing up.

And because I can’t ever resist a callback: I jot one more tidbit into my latest notebook—a stray thought, a lyric, or sometimes just my honest confusion about why rom-com leads don’t have to deal with clunky group texts. Then, I let it rest, close the book, and close my eyes. There’s romance in the surrender, in trusting a day incomplete is still a day well-lived.

Tomorrow? Who knows what it will bring. But I’ll probably start it with jasmine tea, gummy bears, and a reminder that Sade never misses. That’s love, too, in its own way.