Ever since deadline passed and the dull roar of the presses started up below, I’ve been dragging, words thick and slow.
I have other stories to write today but I can’t seem to focus, to pick up the phone or even know what it is I want to ask.
Busy deadline hours will do that.
I’m on police beat today, and so a vague report about shots fired landed on my desk for clarification.
No one could tell me anything until literally the last minute, leaving me scrambling to type words into sentences and just hoping they made sense.
And the light blinking on my phone when I got in was an attorney and the story I half-wrote yesterday needed more work today and I read and reread, looking for errors, until there was no more time.
I didn’t look at the still-warm paper dropped on my desk.
It’s strange how the pace of two hours can bleed you dry, how the remaining six stretch long but nothing seems to get done.
I gave up a little after noon. There’s a bakery around the corner where they know my name, and today they’re selling sticky buns, sugar-syrup thick and sticky between the thin folds of buttery dough. It’s a two minute walk but the sun is bright and the air cool and I bought a loaf of bread, too, from the day-old shelf.
And I don’t know if was the walking, or the sunshine, or the warm sugar dripping onto my fingers, but the words are back now, as if they never left.
I’m crediting the sticky buns. (Since I need another excuse to drop by the bakery…)