On Monday I’m running through old stories, trying to find one to follow up on.
It’s July, and school boards cancel meetings and schools are out and college students are mostly home until August and there’s not a lot to say.
I spend most of the day spinning my wheels, trying to come up with something – anything! – to write and coming up dry. I watch the minute hand on the clock on the wall.
And with two hours left in the day?
He pulls up a chair and reads off his notebook and it’s the kind of story where every question you ask raises new ones, complicated tax issues spinning themselves into a royal mess and some 600 people facing a horrible shock when their bills arrive in a week or two.
There’s another, too, the mystery of the disappearing rope swing. Only it’s not much of a mystery since park staff cut the tree down and it’s lying there in the water, desecration of memories. We just have to find out why. There’s probably a good reason.
And I’m meeting with pittbull-rescue crusaders today and two of the three stories must run before Friday and most of today will go to uploading the paper to the web and how, I wonder, did I go from sitting on my hands just yesterday to praying people call back fast because I don’t have time to wait?
But this is always how it goes.
I left work a little late Monday and walking home realized I was awake, more energized despite the heat than I have been leaving work in a while.
Apparently, I work better when I’m busy.