Last Friday I spent the late afternoon and evening writing furiously to beat a deadline. I'd been putting this assignment off for some time but couldn't wait any longer. When the smoke had cleared from the keyboard, I discovered that I'd written seven thousand words in six hours (about five pages an hour).
Later, I did end up with a tremendous headache, but, hey, somebody had to do it. Of course, since it was a Friday night and I was home alone with Becky (a great opportunity), she had her questions.
"When are you going to be done writing?" she asked at one point.
"Bring me another pot of coffee," I said. "Strong! Black!"
"When are you going to send that to the editor all ready?"
"Soon, darling. Very soon!"
"Does that mean you are about finished?"
"You can't rush perfection," I said. "Take this sentence here . . .it's got to be completely rewritten. And this comma . . . Lord, what was I thinking? And then there's the little matter of this split infinitive that keeps showing up . . ."
More coffee! Please!
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