Today feels like Saturday. I could’ve sworn it was, when I awoke this morning, when I heard our upstairs neighbor stomping in her heels in her early-morning relay race to find a suitable outfit to wear (the girl wears her heels even to brush her teeth at night; I imagine them to be fuzzy-toed and heavy as two anvils). I felt dizzy. I felt a headache. Yet I made myself get up because it is the weekend, I told myself, and on weekends I can write all the livelong day, if I want to. (Or else read blogs and lit journals and wander bookstore aisles, fantasizing that I’ve written a real book.) But no! Today is Thursday, and I have taken the day off from work. It is a free day, to do with what I like. Can you imagine a Thursday that feels like Saturday? That’s like a Monday morning feeling like Friday night. I don’t even mind the groaning sidewalk construction rattling the windows, or what plans I have for later, or the fidgety people all around me. Today is the day I finish that story.
In truth, I wrote to the end of the story yesterday morning. Afterward I soared the ten-block walk to work, feeling such an endorphin high my heart was all woozy, my head tingled like I’d hung upside down from a set of monkey bars, and I couldn’t keep to the crosswalk so I almost got side-swiped by a yellow cab. I was determined not to let my day at work ruin my high. That lasted 45 minutes, tops. Because then work was work, and I was there in it, and it is impossible to be high on writing while at work.
So here I am, this Saturthursday, reading the first draft of the story over. Then I will send it out to my first reader, E. He is still sleeping, so he’ll find it there in his inbox when he wakes up.