(Please excuse me if you are getting spammed by this post. It is not appearing in WP-reader, and I can’t let that go. So if you’ve already read this post in my blog or in your inbox, ignore it as a quirk of an OCD woman and move on.)
I leave for a much needed vacation tomorrow, or so I think. In our family, nothing is final until we reach our destination. This was an impulsive plan that was hatched halfway through Saturday. This meant that I had to complete all my work scheduled for the week, over the weekend. I had the following jobs to complete this week:
1. One 2000 word explanatory semi-technical article on a subject I was to learn.
2. One 3000 word analytical piece in a subject I was clueless about.
3. One 500 word media report on a research topic, which while not as alien to me as 1 and 2, still required a certain amount of literature-research and understanding.
These had to be completed by Sunday night, so that I could run chores on Monday to leave on Tuesday (Again, I think. See the second line of this post)
I completed (1) and (3) by 9PM on Sunday . I was already exhausted and overwhelmed at the prospect of learning about the subject of (2), and writing a 3000 word analytical piece about it in the next few hours. With adrenalin pouring out of every orifice of my body, and like a woman possessed, read and wrote for the next four hours. Finally, at about 1 PM, and uncharacteristic of me, sent it across to the client without a single re-read or review.
As I dropped into bed, I was certain that it was a crappy article and my usual catastrophizing mind decided that I was going to be barred from writing anything ever again by the world.
This morning, as I sat waiting for a service, I read the article for the first time on my phone.
I was impressed.
I have no recollection of ever writing it, and yet, had I not known that I wrote it, I would have judged it as a darn good article. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that it was better than (1) and (3) that, while being good in an objective sense (ahem, I am a competent enough writer), were nothing like this spectacular essay that was fuelled by pure adrenalin.
I hope my pride is not a premonition of a fall to come.