Climbing Out

I turned in two manuscripts to my editor in the last two weeks or so. It was awful timing on my part. I had plenty of time to get both done--months--but the last push to deadline is always intense. And with two back to back? It got ugly. And now that they have both been turned in? I get to climb out from under a pile on my desk.

I have discovered that writers generally seem to fall into two categories. There are writers like a certain someone I will not name. She has color-coded Excel sheets and fancy notebooks with tabs and some kind of system that has to be seen to be believed. It involves different color highlighters and pens and . . . I can't even begin to describe it all. Her desk is always pristine. I could hate her if she wasn't my friend.

And then there are writers like me.

Up against a deadline, I can't even find my wastebasket. I can, but it is piled so high with paper and trash, that I have taken to stacking empty water bottles on my desk, the floor, anywhere. I have three cups of cold tea right now in different spots on my desk. Papers. Bills. Bottles of vitamins I haven't been taking. Plates of old toast. In short, it looks like I lived at my desk. In fact, I did. Except to crash at night, I pretty much haven't moved for three weeks.

I am not sure what it is. Why I go into insane mode when it's deadline time. My outfits decline. I got from nice jeans, sweaters, and socks and walking shoes. To . . . today. Flannel pj bottoms, socks, no shoes, and a sweatshirt that has seen better days.

So now I get to climb out. I will swear to myself that I will keep my desk neat. That I don't NEED to be this way to create. Until next time when I will inevitably do it all again.

So fellow writers, lurkers, pals . . . anyone else fall victim to this. Or am I the only one who lives at her desk come deadline time?

Peace,
E