| ck hurts and head throbs. The lights are too | | | | I take a few minutes to make myself |
| bright; the temperature too cold. Is it the flu? | | | | comfortable on the couch before I realize my |
| Some as-yet unnamed dread disease? No, | | | | laptop is in the other room. Sighing, I flip through |
| it’s just that it’s already 8 p.m. on | | | | the channels and find a movie with Humphrey |
| a Sunday and I have a deadline for my weekly | | | | Bogart. I’ve seen it before, of course, but |
| column in a short twelve hours. | | | | feel it will inspire my writing. Yes, I think as I lean |
| I have asked writers I’ve met over the | | | | back, munching my way through Jarlsburg and |
| years how they feel about the bane of my | | | | crackers, some black and white inspiration will turn |
| existence: deadlines. | | | | my scattered thoughts and incomplete notes into |
| “I love deadlines. They keep me | | | | a column for the ages. |
| motivated,” one giddy writer told me. | | | | Soon, too soon, I go find my laptop and start |
| Another squealed, “I love writing so much | | | | writing. An introductory paragraph stalls so I dive |
| that I’m always turning in assignments | | | | straight into the appetizers - pan seared scallops, |
| two weeks before they are due!” | | | | cold lobster salad, carpaccio. Closing my eyes I |
| Sheer insanity, I think, as I flip through the | | | | see the table as it was spread before us on |
| television channels. Who can be happy at the | | | | Friday night. I relive the tastes and inhale the |
| thought of a looming deadline? I look at the clock; | | | | scents of the evening. Ah, I’m in heaven. |
| 8:30 p.m. Still time to have a snack and maybe | | | | I open one eye to peer at the clock. If I go to |
| read a chapter in that new mystery. By 9 | | | | bed now, I can wake at 5 and finish it before |
| o’clock, with full tummy and unable to find | | | | deadline. |
| that novel, I pick up a notepad. | | | | My husband, a newspaper editor, has a |
| “Duck confit, mixed berry coulis, a side of | | | | joke,“ A deadline is what you hear when |
| mixed greens wilted with a bacon fat and vinegar | | | | an editor hangs up on you.“ For me |
| dressing, and roasted parsnips.” The meal | | | | deadlines are more deadly than that. I agonize, I |
| was eaten two nights ago, but I’m just | | | | moan out loud waking my snoring dog. My chest |
| now forcing myself to write the notes I’ll | | | | is tight, my throat dry. |
| use to weave my restaurant review. | | | | “Give yourself a false deadline of two |
| Week in, week out, who can blame me for | | | | days before the article is due.” |
| stalling? A seven course meal here, a take-out | | | | “Rejoice over deadlines for they mean |
| lunch there - each week I have to pen 1000 | | | | you have paying work.” |
| words about some meal eaten at some | | | | None of that works for me. I breathe deeply. The |
| restaurant, week after week, year after year. | | | | appetizers and entrees are done. I just need to |
| And each Sunday evening I sit quaking in fear | | | | write up the desserts and slap on a conclusion, |
| that the words won’t flow. | | | | rate the restaurant and give a snappy farewell. I |
| Hmm, writing about the duck has made me | | | | take a deep breath and dive in, racing through the |
| hungry again. I wander into the kitchen, wash up | | | | molten chocolate cake and the three star rating. |
| some dishes, open the fridge, close it again, and | | | | It’s not even midnight! |
| try to decide what I want. A cup of tea? A | | | | I pour myself a glass of wine with congratulations |
| chocolate something? Cheese and crackers? I fix | | | | for a job well done. |
| all three and head back to the living room where | | | | Now, that deadline wasn’t so bad, was it? |
| I’ve decided to write my review. | | | | |