My back hurts and head throbs. The lights are too bright; the temperature too cold. Is it the flu? Some as-yet unnamed dread disease? No, it�s just that it�s already 8 p.m. on a Sunday and I have a deadline for my weekly column in a short twelve hours.

I have asked writers I�ve met over the years how they feel about the bane 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 through the television channels. Who can be happy at the thought of a looming deadline? I look at the clock; 8:30 p.m. Still time to have a snack and maybe read a chapter in that new mystery. By 9 o�clock, with full tummy and unable to find that novel, I pick up a notepad.

�Duck confit, mixed berry coulis, a side of mixed greens wilted with a bacon fat and vinegar dressing, and roasted parsnips.� The meal was eaten two nights ago, but I�m just now forcing myself to write the notes I�ll use to weave my restaurant review.

Week in, week out, who can blame me for stalling? A seven course meal here, a take-out lunch there - each week I have to pen 1000 words about some meal eaten at some restaurant, week after week, year after year. And each Sunday evening I sit quaking in fear that the words won�t flow.

Hmm, writing about the duck has made me hungry again. I wander into the kitchen, wash up some dishes, open the fridge, 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 to the living room where I�ve decided to write my review.

I take a few minutes to make myself comfortable on the couch before I realize my laptop is in the other room. Sighing, I flip through the channels and find a movie 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 into a column for the ages.

Soon, too soon, I go find my laptop and start writing. An introductory paragraph stalls so I dive straight into the appetizers - pan seared scallops, cold lobster salad, carpaccio. Closing my eyes I see the table as it was spread before us on Friday night. I relive the tastes and inhale the scents of the evening. Ah, I�m in heaven.

I open one eye to peer at the clock. If I go to bed now, I can wake at 5 and finish it before deadline.

My husband, a newspaper editor, has a joke,� A deadline is what you hear when an editor 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 yourself a false deadline of two days before the article 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 up the desserts and slap on a conclusion, rate the restaurant and give a snappy farewell. I take a deep breath and dive in, racing through the molten chocolate cake and the three star rating. It�s not even midnight!

I pour myself a glass of wine with congratulations for a job well done.

Now, that deadline wasn�t so bad, was it?

This article was posted on November 10, 2005