A Day in the Life of Ruby Scott (or How to Romance the Wife, Roast the Chickpeas, and Avoid Murdering a Keyboard!)

The Art of Lesbian Self-Care: Unhinged but Effective

Let’s start with the weird bit—because, frankly, we embrace it. While most people are still face down in their pillows or debating whether they really need to get up today, we’re already standing in the kitchen, staring at a glass of chia slime like it holds the secrets of the universe.

Yes, chia seeds. In warm water. It’s our pre-walk ritual, and it looks like frogspawn—but hey, it’s full of fibre, omega-3s, hydration, and the deeply satisfying feeling that your gut is now operating more efficiently than the entire UK rail system.

Then comes the creatine monohydrate. Not because we’re bulking up for a cage fight, but because it helps with focus, strength, and the sheer mental stamina required to balance sapphic smut, emotional arcs, and wondering if that sound outside is a bird, a bin, or just the universe mocking our to-do list.

And then? Supplements. So many supplements. Honestly, our kitchen looks less like a place to eat and more like the opening scene of a wellness documentary. Collagen (because gravity is rude), B12, D3, magnesium, vegan omega 3 oil, turmeric—we don’t swallow pills, we practically brunch on them.

We’ve got capsules for energy, for mood, for memory, for bones, for joints, for inflammation, and probably and one mystery capsule that might just write my next chapter for me. Are we sure what each one does? Absolutely not. Are we committed? Fully.

We don’t snack. We don’t do sugar.
We do take supplements like we’re fuelling up for the Lesbian Olympics of Longevity and Lust.

 

Walking, Rambling, and Wondering if She’s Regretting Everything

We live in a small village at the foot of the Ochil hills in Scotland, where the mornings are crisp, the lambs are bleating, and the air smells faintly of sheep and potential. It’s lambing season right now, which means more traffic on the hills than on the roads—locals getting their steps in before the midges wake up. And we’re right there with them.

At 6AM, we’re out the door. No coffee. No doom-scrolling. Just sunrise, birdsong, and me… unleashing a full-blown TED Talk on my unsuspecting wife for a solid hour. It’s our morning walk, and it’s my creative brain’s unofficial opening ceremony.

I talk non-stop. About the book I’m writing, the dream I had (which definitely means something), character arcs, plot twists, colour schemes for marketing, and why I think lesbian romance deserves an entire Netflix category of its own. Meanwhile, my wife walks beside me, quiet and calm, as if she’s either perfectly content or reminding herself she chose this. Voluntarily. With vows.

 

My Wife doesn’t dream. At all. Or if she does, she doesn’t remember. So when I turn to her, eyes wide with intensity and ask, “What are you thinking about?” she’ll just blink and say, “Nothing.”
Nothing?!
My brain is a chaotic lesbian Pinterest board at all hours, and she’s just... basking in silence. I truly don’t understand it. Maybe it’s her inner sanctuary. Maybe she’s just imagining what it would be like to walk in peace again. Who’s to say?

But here’s the thing: she listens. She shows up. She lets me ramble on like an audiobook that doesn’t have an off switch. And in return, I like to think I make her mornings just a little more chaotic, creative, and caffeinated-by-osmosis. It’s our favourite time of day: the world is still, the light is golden, and I’m brimming with things that absolutely cannot wait.

Fuelled by Eggs and Filth

After the walk, and we have showered, it’s straight to breakfast — usually egg muffins made in the air fryer. Don’t roll your eyes. These little protein bombs come out golden, fluffy, and suspiciously like something made by a functioning adult …and somehow, these muffins make us feel unstoppable.

Once my wife heads off to work — like the absolute goddess she is — I switch from Chatty Morning Gremlin to Full Author Mode. That’s when the sapphic chaos begins. I write lesbian romance books with enough steam to fog up every lens in a Specsavers. Every page gets a piece of my heart, a sprinkle of filth, and at least one character who’s on the verge of an emotional crisis and an orgasm, sometimes both at the same time!

As a writer, I aim for 2,000 words a day—but anyone who writes knows that’s just the tip of the author iceberg. Writing isn’t just about putting words on the page; it’s about living in the heads of your characters, asking “what if” a hundred times, and staring out the window long enough for the neighbours to assume you’re plotting either a novel or a murder. Most days, I’m juggling drafts, edits, marketing, website orders, reader emails, and moments of pure panic when I realise I’ve forgotten to update a blurb or schedule a newsletter.

But I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m a full-time author building a world of sapphic love stories—books that aren’t just spicy, but filled with heart, humour, and characters that feel real. Whether it’s an age-gap romance crackling with tension, a quiet slow burn that sneaks up on you, or a high-heat tale of power, vulnerability, and trust, I pour everything I have into creating stories that matter to women who love women. I write to entertain, to empower, and maybe—just maybe—to make someone feel a little more seen.

From Smut to Spreadsheets

But writing’s only half the gig. I’m also juggling website orders (to everyone who buys direct—you’re my favourite kind of people), prepping newsletters, plotting marketing campaigns like I’m trying to win a sapphic Nobel, and wrestling Canva into submission. Canva never listens. Canva tests me.

In between crafting emotionally unhinged lesbian love stories and trying to remember which social media platform wants reels, posts, or interpretive dance today, I do a bit of strength training. Weights, resistance bands, the occasional plank—only if I’m feeling reckless.

Snacks? Oh, you mean my sad little lineup of protein-packed virtue. I haven’t touched sugar in over a month (yes, I expect a medal and possibly a small shrine), and now a toasted Quorn fillet feels like a Michelin-starred cheat day. Pumpkin seeds? Crunchy little lies I tell myself instead of reaching for chocolate. And air-fried chickpeas? Those smug, golden nuggets crunch like a dream.

I’ve cut back on snacking, ditched sugar, upped my protein, and started moving more—turns out the combo actually works. I’m nearly a stone lighter, my trousers fit better, and I swear my brain feels less like mashed potatoes. Do I miss chocolate? Sometimes. But I really like feeling this good.

Meanwhile, emails fly in. Receipts get filed (badly). And I keep telling myself this is the week I’ll finally understand how VAT works before my accountant changes his number and flees the country. I do my accounts with the precision of a woman Googling “what counts as a business expense” far too often. Did I need that new notebook in three colours? Possibly not. Did I log it under “essential creative tools”? Absolutely.

There’s a spreadsheet open at all times—mostly so I look like I’ve got it together. In reality, half my bookkeeping is vibes and crossed fingers. But I’m trying. I’m learning. And I have a folder labelled “Definitely Important” that’s doing a lot of emotional heavy lifting.

 

💬 Midday Check-In (aka My Excuse to Text My Wife)

At some point in the day—usually when I should be writing—I fire off a little “How’s your day going?” or “What time will you be home?” text to my wife. On the surface, it’s about dinner prep. But really, I just miss her.

She doesn’t ask for check-ins, and she definitely doesn’t expect me to be planning her evening meal like a Michelin-starred lesbian in leggings. But I love it. It’s my way of saying, I see how hard you work, and I want to take care of you the way you take care of me. (Also, I need to know if I have time to air-fry anything complicated.)

When she finally walks through the door, it’s the moment everything in me exhales. I get to kiss her, hug her, welcome her back like she’s been gone a little too long, even if it’s only been a few hours. It’s quiet, simple, and honestly? It’s the best part of my day.

Two Desks, One Love Story in Progress - The Thunder typer returns

After dinner—something healthy that I’ve lovingly timed to coincide with my wife’s arrival like some kind of domestic sorceress—it’s back to the books. This is usually when the spice gets written. Apparently, nothing inspires sapphic steam quite like a belly full of protein and smug satisfaction.

Meanwhile, Angie (wife, marketing genius, and professional keyboard slayer) heads downstairs to handle the social media and marketing because she types like the keyboard insulted her mother. Seriously, I don’t know if she’s scheduling posts or launching a cyber-attack, but I love her for it… from a safe distance.

She keeps everything running—answering messages, writing blogs (not this one though) doing my social media posts and she does it all with the kind of quiet competence that makes me feel like the chaotic artist half of a very functional lesbian empire. And yes, she tells me when something’s not working. Blurb? Rubbish. TikTok caption? Rubbish. Outfit? Debatable. But always said with love (and usually a raised eyebrow).

Together, we make it work: one click-clack storm downstairs, one sapphic smut merchant upstairs, both fuelled by love, laughter, and the quiet magic of knowing we’ve built something real. We just get each other. We work hard, we dream big, and seeing those efforts pay off? It’s everything. We’re a team in the truest sense and honestly, I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else.

Work. Play. Love. Repeat.

By the time the world winds down, we’ll sometimes snuggle up with a book, scroll and laugh through Sarah Millican videos or a bit of plotting for the next big sapphic scandal in my stories. It’s not glamorous. It’s just us and it works.

This life isn’t always smooth but it’s honest. And in between the books, the walks,and the supplements, we’ve found something that works: each other.

We don’t need perfect. We just need real love, real laughter, and the kind of rhythm that feels like home, it's the quiet gestures, the “You’ve got this” texts when I’m knee-deep in edits and self-doubt.

So here’s to the magic in the routine. The early mornings. The love that builds something beautiful one day at a time.

May your days be full of joy, your chickpeas crunchy, and your sapphic heroines unapologetically hot. 💋

If you’re into unapologetically hot lesbians, steamy romance, and stories that make your heart race (and other things too), head over to rubyscott.shop and grab the lesbian romance books your TBR’s been begging for. 💋🔥

 

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