10 things a writer can do while waiting for the phone to ring…

It begins, as all great creative spirals do, with coffee.

Specifically, the fourth cup.

The third was fine.

Reasonable.

Still tethered to reality.

But the fourth?

That’s the tipping point where you start questioning not just your plot arcs, but whether time is real and if maybe - just maybe - the caffeine gods are trying to communicate via static in your AirPods.

We both take turns entering the room to ask the other if they’ve ‘heard anything back from That Thing?’

We both say no, obviously at different junctions in time, however we’ve decided to rebuild the entire animation workflow in protest.

We nod.

We know the ritual.

The phone doesn’t ring, so we manifest chaos.

Welcome back

Late Night Musings with Rogues and Scoundrels

10 Things a Writer Can Do While Waiting for the Phone to Ring

1. Make a YouTube animation show based on a short story we’ve written based on the greyworld universe.

You know, just something light.

Not an epic mythos exploring memory erosion, emotional surveillance, and screen-induced hive minds.

No, no pressure.

Just a quick 7-minute cosmic horror animation with a haunting original score, whispering static, 1990s VHS overlays, and a custom voiceover that definitely doesn’t take four weeks to record because I insist on doing it in a blanket fort.

It’s fine.

I’m fine.

The animatics are whispering to me now.

2. Start a new exercise regime at 1001% commitment so that I appear like a pro creative dancer.

Because nothing says “I’m totally in control of my career” like suddenly doing YouTube ballet tutorials at 6AM in leg warmers and a headband you found in a drawer labelled “2011: Delusional Fitness Phase.”

Day 1: Barre goddess.

Day 2: Can’t walk.

Day 3: Passive-aggressively stretching while scrolling through your inbox.

Day 4: Set choreography to underscore emotional scenes in your screenplay.

Day 5: New character idea: retired ballerina who solves alien crimes.

3. Organise the back room – make a studio – then work completely in the lounge room

Ah yes, the ritual cleansing of the sacred Creative Space.

You declutter.

Light a candle.

Hang inspiration boards.

It becomes a shrine to productivity.

Then you write…

…on the couch.

…in your dressing gown.

…under a blanket.

Because the lounge room has a vibe, okay?

The back room knows what it did.

4. Start to read the pile of books on your bedside table and promptly fall asleep in 7 minutes.

It’s not that I’m not excited to read them.

It’s just that as soon as I crack open the spine, my body interprets it as a cue for unconsciousness.

I tell myself it’s absorption via osmosis.

I tell others I’m resting my eyes.

But really, I’m just lost in a liminal space between page one and REM sleep.

5. Deep-clean your inbox, then spiral because no one’s emailing you anyway.

You delete newsletters from 2019.

You make folders.

You colour-code.

You feel powerful.

Then you realize your inbox is just… quiet.

So quiet it echoes.

So quiet you consider emailing yourself with fake good news just to feel something.

So quiet you refresh it aggressively enough to summon a demon or a LinkedIn notification.

6. Rebrand your entire creative identity on Canva.

You are no longer a writer. You are a “story architect.”

You update your colour palette.

You flirt with a serif font.

You design twelve versions of your logo, each representing a different trauma response.

By the end, your brand guidelines are tighter than your actual narrative structure.

7. Bake bread you didn’t ask for.

You’re not even hungry.

But suddenly you’re elbow-deep in sourdough like it’s a therapy session.

“It’s about control,” you whisper to the dough.

“It’s about texture,” you lie to yourself.

“This starter understands me,” you think as you neglect the final proof because you’ve accidentally started outlining a Flatline prequel novella.

8. Hold imaginary interviews with The New Yorker in the shower.

It’s 7:14PM.

You’re shampooing.

And suddenly you’re giving a devastatingly articulate interview about your creative process.

“I suppose trauma has always been the ink in my pen,” you say aloud to no one.

You pause to thank your cat for their emotional support during lockdown.

You cry as you accept the Pulitzer… which is actually your loofah.

9. Watch a UFO documentary for ‘research’ and spiral into existential panic.

You press play for inspiration.

Just a few ideas.

Three hours later, you’re googling “Men in Black real footage” and scanning the room for hidden microphones.

You sleep with the lights on.

You email Maddie: “We’re on to something. Or THEY are.”

You name your new protagonist “Linda.”

You no longer trust your toaster.

10. Start a new project – but don’t tell the others

This is the big one.

You love your current projects.

They love you.

You’ve been through things together.

But there’s a new idea.

Whispering.

Flashing in your dreams.

A hot little concept that isn’t fleshed out but feels right.

You start plotting in secret.

You name the folder “Misc Notes.”

You act normal.

You lie.

You cheat.

You write.

Because, hey - no one’s calling. Yet.

Might as well fall in love again.

Until next time, keep spiralling creatively.

The phone will ring.

Or it won’t. Either way, we’ve got a cosmic horror podcast and a ballerina-detective screenplay to finish.

Pass the coffee, hermano.

We ride at dawn.