“I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.” ~ Douglas Adams
Normally, that’s a quote I have often agreed with when it comes to self-induced deadlines. Not this time, though. This deadline isn’t quite that little bluebird of slap-happiness I’ve come to know and love. It’s a bit more like an iron vulture this time… and, unfortunately, it now sits where the eagle once landed, staring at my through kaleidoscope eyes.
Of course, I’m speaking of the deadline I had set for my first novel’s completion. Well, to be specific, the forth deadline I had set for this. Sure, I could offer up some slightly accurate explanations as for why these events have taken place. I could also offer up some pretty creative fabrications as well, if you’d like. However, I really don’t have any intension or desire for engaging in such an activity. In fact, all I have, at this point, is the urge to throw my hands up in a gesture of dissatisfaction and grunt joylessly. You can do this, too, if you’d like. But, if you want my expertise on that and what results may follow, please allow me to share that doing so truly doesn’t help matters any. Neither does exclaiming of the French phrase, “C’est la vie!” Well… knowing is half the battle, right?
On a related topic, I have found much delight in the company of our adorable, yet ornery quadrupeds. To that, I can only add that attempting to devour a ham sandwich, on the other hand, in a house filled with frisky felines is no different than inciting a riot. I’ve seen sharks on TV frenzy, but with nowhere near the same enthusiasm as eight cats longing for a shred of sweetly cured pig. Feel free to take my word on that.