While I wrestled with the title (the wrestling of titles also being an excellent reason for Not Writing) the book itself had stubbornly and – it must be said – ungratefully refused to write itself. It lies buried somewhere in those boxes of paper, breathing, waiting for me to unearth it. I don't need a word processor; I need a pitchfork. I need a secretary. I need – a coffee, that's what I need. So off I go. (Writing is all about priorities.)
Hours later, I return from Second Cup, having read with unnatural interest a report on the recent fluctuations in NASDAQ shares (I don't have any stocks or investments, per se, but you never know), only to find that my book has still not magically assembled itself.
I have no time for anything else now. I must write. No time. That's my new motto. It's like a Burton Cummings riff: I got got got got no time. My wife and I have two children, 7 and 11, who need attention the way hamsters need food pellets. But I have no time to help. I can't run that errand, pay that bill. I have no time. No time! I'm writing a book, damn it!
The original deadline – the one I cheerfully agreed to when I signed that contract, lo those many months ago – has long since passed. I asked the publisher for an extension. And the publisher granted it. The bastards! (And oh, how tempting it is to simply upend those boxes of loose papers on my editor's desk and say, “There you go! It's a little rough, but I think I've got enough there for you to work with.”)
Okay. So enough fooling around. I better knuckle down, get going, light the proverbial candle at both proverbial ends, keep the nose to the grindstone, pull up the bootstraps, grab the bull by the horns. And though I am too busy to shower or shave, I am, oddly enough, never too busy to drop everything and regale friends and family members, and even the occasional passerby, with exhaustive explanations about how busy I am. (I'm something of a philanthropist that way.) And if someone suggests I write an article titled “How's the Book Going?” I will gladly take on the new assignment. Why? Because I'm an idiot, that's why.
An author, a very famous author, once stated that he loved deadlines. He liked “the swooshing sound they make when they go by.” So true. I just wish I could remember who said that. I'd stop and look it up, you understand, but I've got no time. I'm working on a book.
Will Ferguson's travel memoir Beyond Belfast: A 560 Mile Walk Across Northern Ireland on Sore Feet will be published in October. In theory.
