My dog ate it...

A deadline is looming and yet I sit here thinking about everything but the writing at hand that needs my full and undivided attention.

Maybe I'll write better under pressure, I rationalize (is irrationalize a word?)... I hear my brain say "if you push it off until the very last minute, you'll probably deliver your best creative effort yet!"

"Um, excuse me, Gwen," a soft raspy voice says, "We're the few cells left in your brain (and we are on the left side of your brain, make no mistake) that think procrastination is NOT the true genius of creativity." Dang it. And I was all psyched about flitting off this afternoon.

The thermometer says it's 97 -- but it's a dry heat, so it only feels like, oh, I don't know, 93. The pool is calling me, the cool grocery store is calling me, my dogs want me to play with them.

I can hear the phone call now. "Hi [editor], um, I'm calling because I need another day. Yeah, it seems my dog ate my research. Yes, I know. It sounds crazy. Who knew dogs liked restaurant menus, made of paper, for crying out loud."

Enough venting... I'm back to writing... that's my story and I'm sticking to it.