Deadline again

Writing against time!

I’m on deadline – again. As always. And it’s just as well really. If it weren’t for the deadlines bearing down on me I’d probably never get a project finished.

Right now I’m on deadline to finish this blog, and I’m trying; I really am, it’s just that all the kids have bowled in from school, full of chatter and squashed uneaten lunches, notes that need signing right now, and requests for food (I look pointedly at the mashed lunches but no one gets the hint) and then Ruby says she needs to be taken to dancing lessons, and Darcy wants to know if we can go to his mate’s house to pick up the skateboard he left there on the weekend, and suddenly I remember that there is only a tub of yoghurt and some parmesan cheese in the fridge, and while I’m pondering whether a yoghurt and cheese pasta will work the phone rings and someone in Dubai wants to know if I’m happy with my current mobile plan, and then the cat slips quietly in the front door and I happen to look over just as she drops a disemboweled rat under the couch and then Ruby (a committed vegetarian) notices too, and all hell really breaks loose.

So it’s now it’s two hours later, and a whole lot closer to deadline. The rat has been summarily buried, the cat is banished to the backyard, supplies have been bought at the supermarket and vegie soup is bubbling away happily on the stove. We’ve been in the car for an hour-and-a-half delivering, dropping off and picking up. Now there’s a quiet half hour before dinner to really get stuck into this blog.

I just need to think of something to write.

The boys are watching The Simpsons and I stare at the screen for a minute or so, mesmerised by the color and movement until the ad break snaps me back to the task at hand.

“What are you writing mum,” Darcy asks.

“A blog for Random House, but I’m not sure what to write,” I tell him.

“Just tell them you think your 13-year-old son Darcy is awesome,” my son suggests with a cheeky grin.

“Tell them meat is murder,” Ruby shouts from the kitchen, the rat incident still raw in her mind.

“Why don’t you let me write it for you mum,” 11-year-old Ollie suggests, “I could put in some murders and bad guys and stuff.”

I drum my fingers on the edge of the laptop and smile at their efforts to help.

“Is dinner nearly ready mum?” Darcy asks, turning back to the television.

“When can I have the laptop for my homework,” Ollie chimes in.

There are noisy footsteps on the stairs and 19-year-old Harley bounds into the room.

“Hey all. Mum, Katie and me will be here for tea, ok? And I need to borrow the car tonight is that cool? Is there petrol in it? Oh, and can you lend me $20 bucks? Love ya.” And he’s gone again, running back down to his room downstairs.

I shake my head. It’s hopeless, I’ll never meet this deadline. I’m sure Random will understand.

I close the lid and pass the laptop to my son in resignation.

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