By Monday morning (my deadline) I must complete three book reviews, two columns, two essays, and a new book proposal about breast cancer--which, by invitation of a very kind publisher, I may get to complete as a face-to-face, hand-delivery by early October.
So . . . I'm up late. David Letterman. Conan. Keyboard. The nights flow together like coffee and cream.
My wife, of course, wants to know why I won't join her in bed. Not that we'd actually do anything. We wouldn't. Why would we? Oh, we might talk, or read a book, or decide which can of Chunky soup to open for dinner the following day . . . but we wouldn't push the envelope too far. We would not discuss Chef Boy-R Dee, for example, or Bush's Baked Beans, or wonder what our son was doing at college. No, we would turn out the lights and then ask, "Did you lock the front door?" or "Do you miss the cat?" or "Have you ever considered what it would be like to sleep on a bed of nails and enjoy it?"
No, I will not be engaging in these raucous conversations. I will be up late working calluses into my fingertips.
I'll save these deep conversations for later. When I'm rested.
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