And the Panic Sets In

I have the greatest job in the world. I get to work on my own schedule. I’m in competition with no one but myself. The world is as big as my imagination and people actually write me to tell me they loved my book. I can tell you unequivocally that no one ever wrote me to tell me I was doing a good job when I was a public administration schlub.

So for about 300 days a year, I get to bask in the sublime pleasure of my fantasy world. But there are about 65 days a year that fantasy collides with reality, and I am suddenly in a gut-wrenching panic. It’s all about the deadlines. Not the ones set by the publisher, because chances are I am already way past that. I am talking about the date after which I know my book will get slid to another month, if not another year. The date after which publishers and editors will call my agent and ask if there is something they need to know—like, do I have a terminal illness, are my hands broken, that sort of thing.