The Deadline Crazies

This is probably going to be short and sweet because I’ve promised my editor that she will have my now-late Superromance by the end of next week, and that means I don’t get to do a lot of clicking around the internet and waxing eloquent about subjects that probably don’t interest anyone except me.

I’m not sure why it is that every time I’m right up against a deadline, that’s when everything around me starts to feel wrong. It feels so wrong, in fact, it’s hard to concentrate because of just how wrong it is. Today, for instance, I’m deeply disturbed by the placement of my computer tower. My brother (who is also my web guy) set up the computer for me when we moved into this place a year ago. I was so delighted by the fact that (a) I had an office again and (b) I had a nice, big window overlooking the street, I didn’t much care where the computer tower went.

Computer Tower

Not my computer. Not my desk or my office.

Well, today I care. I care so much, it’s almost more than I can do to keep writing when I really should be moving that computer tower around. I mean it’s sitting right on my desk, for crying out loud. On my desk! What kind of lame-brain computer guy (see above) would put a computer tower on a desk? It’s ugly. Just plain, flippin’ ugly. I don’t know how anyone could work with a big old ugly computer tower staring them right in the face all day. In fact, I’m quite sure the placement of my computer tower is responsible for this manuscript being late.

I’m also bothered by the fact that I have notebooks and notes from the July board meeting spread out all over my desk. The Bylaws, Articles of Incorporation and Policy & Procedure Manual are all right here, ready if I should need them as the board discusses issues that need to be resolved. How can anyone have a single creative thought with Bylaws open on the desk in front of them? Bylaws, by their very nature, go against the very grain of the creative thought process.

My bookshelves are another issue. The organization of the office supplies in the closet behind me. Never mind that I can’t see them. I know they’re there, and I know they’re not organized well. I want to clean the dresser in my bedroom, too, and reorganize the walk-in closet, and clean the kitchen counters thoroughly, and reorganize the pantry . . .

cleaning-up-a-dirty-floorThe funniest part of all this is that I really don’t like housework–except when I’m trying to avoid writing. And I only avoid writing when I really, really, really have to write. Don’t get me wrong, I love having done the housework, but the doing leaves something to be desired.

I wonder if I’m the only woman in the world who can judge how close her deadline is by the level of desire to do housework, but I can’t think about it for long. After all, I promised my editor that she will have my now-late Superromance by the end of next week.

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