My house has never been cleaner, and I suspect I know why.
I’m looking at a deadline, and so feel an overwhelming urge to do anything but write. So I cleaned the toilet. Then I scrubbed the floor and changed the water in the fishtanks. Then I washed the car. Then I washed the car again, because it was extremely dirty. And the whole time, festering in the back of my mind like a dirty hangnail is the knowledge that I should be doing something else.
The deadline looms and the pressure builds to dangerous levels inside me until I explode like the boiler at the Overlook hotel. The best I can hope for is to be near the computer when it happens. Then, maybe I’ll be left with some useable shrapnel. A Pollack painting of blood splatter and half-baked ideas. This is getting graphic.
I don’t want to say I have an unhealthy relationship with deadlines, but I do. I just don’t know what I’d do without them.
How do you deal with deadlines?