My back hurts and head throbs. The lights are too bright;temperature too cold. Is itflu? Some as-yet unnamed dread disease? No, it’s just that it’s already eight p.m. onSunday and I havedeadline for my weekly column inshort twelve hours.

I have asked writers I’ve met overyears how they feel aboutbane of my existence: deadlines.

“I love deadlines. They keep me motivated,” one giddy writer told me.

Another squealed, “I love writing so much that I’m always turning in assignments two weeks before they are due!”

Sheer insanity, I think, as I flip throughtelevision channels. Who can be happy atthought oflooming deadline? I look atclock; eight:threezero p.m. Still time to havesnack and maybe readchapter in that new mystery. By nine o’clock, with full tummy and unable to find that novel, I pick upnotepad.

“Duck confit, mixed berry coulis,side of mixed greens wilted withbacon fat and vinegar dressing, and roasted parsnips.” The meal was eaten two nights ago, but I’m just now forcing myself to writenotes I’ll use to weave my restaurant review.

Week in, week out, who can blame me for stalling? A seven course meal here,take-out lunch there - each week I have to pen onezerozerozero words about some meal eaten at some restaurant, week after week, year after year. And each Sunday evening I sit quaking in fear thatwords won’t flow.

Hmm, writing aboutduck has made me hungry again. I wander intokitchen, wash up some dishes, openfridge, close it again, and try to decide what I want. A cup of tea? A chocolate something? Cheese and crackers? I fix all three and head back toliving room where I’ve decided to write my review.

I takefew minutes to make myself comfortable oncouch before I realize my laptop is inother room. Sighing, I flip throughchannels and findmovie with Humphrey Bogart. I’ve seen it before, of course, but feel it will inspire my writing. Yes, I think as I lean back, munching my way through Jarlsburg and crackers, some black and white inspiration will turn my scattered thoughts and incomplete notes intocolumn forages.

Soon, too soon, I go find my laptop and start writing. An introductory paragraph stalls so I dive straight intoappetizers - pan seared scallops, cold lobster salad, carpaccio. Closing my eyes I seetable as it was spread before us on Friday night. I relivetastes and inhalescents ofevening. Ah, I’m in heaven.

I open one eye to peer atclock. If I go to bed now, I can wake at five and finish it before deadline.

My husband,newspaper editor, hasjoke,“ A deadline is what you hear wheneditor hangs up on you.“ For me deadlines are more deadly than that. I agonize, I moan out loud waking my snoring dog. My chest is tight, my throat dry.

“Give yourselffalse deadline of two days beforearticle is due.”

“Rejoice over deadlines for they mean you have paying work.”

None of that works for me. I breathe deeply. The appetizers and entrees are done. I just need to write updesserts and slap onconclusion, raterestaurant and givesnappy farewell. I takedeep breath and dive in, racing throughmolten chocolate cake andthree star rating. It’s not even midnight!

I pour myselfglass of wine with congratulations forjob well done.

Now, that deadline wasn’t so bad, was it?

This article was posted on November onezero, twozerozerofive