Fried

I am an egg. Cracked open, poured out, and fried.

This is the feeling of being a writer on a serious deadline.

Granted, the topic wasn't overly serious. In fact, it may have been the coolest assignment I'll ever get. I was covering a concert at a local high school featuring the University of Wisconsin Varsity Band, the beloved musicians of my alma mater. U-rah-rah, Wi-i-i-scooon-oooon-sin.

I went to the show for free. I enjoyed the music, even tapped my pen against my chin as I scribbled observations in my notebook (a red one, naturallly).

Then the work started. I had just walked in the door at 5:30 PM when the phone rang. It was my editor, wondering when I'd have the copy in for the story that was set to run in tomorrow's daily. (He'd told me the paper would need it "as soon as possible" after the show.)

"I'll be done in an hour," I said confidently. Then, slightly less confidently, I asked, "Will that be soon enough?" (What did I think I was going to do if he said no? Fly backward around the world like Superman to reverse the progress of time?)

"That's fine," he responded. "I just need to let the night editor know."

Let me say here that editors are very hard to read. It's not that they're mean or without emotion; I understand now that it's just that they're under CONSTANT PRESSURE, down to the very minute, to ensure they get their stuff together.

And tonight, their stuff was my stuff. Along with the piece for the daily, I had two assignments for the weekly regional paper, one a summary of the concert and the other a profile of a local kid who was playing in the band. Both were due by 10 PM.

The first was delivered at 7:30 PM. The second slid into home at 10:04 PM. (Darn email time stamps...)

And now I depart to deposit my yolky self between the cozy flannel sheets of my bed to sleep and dream of crashing cymbals and high-stepping marching band members tramping all over my computer keyboard.