I have a good friend from my high school days (I’ve known his wife since elementary school) who, because he’s got adult kids and is practically retired, has a lot of time on his hands to email me. He’s funny, has a wry sense of humor, and deep into his 50s is still a pretty rocking dude.

He also sends me little digs when he hasn’t heard from me in a while. I’ve spent the whole weekend working on a project that I didn’t know I had until yesterday afternoon and it’s due tomorrow. It’s done now, but I wanted to share with you my response to one of his, "Helloooo, you in there?" notes:

I’M BURIED UNDER WORK, an avalanche of surprise projects and an even more surprising proposal request that went from "Get it to me in three weeks, I’m going out of town." to "Can I get it by 1/31, I’d like to start 2/1.")

I’m totally jealous that you go to the theatre at all, never mind YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN on Broadway. But we’re good except my kids only see the back of Mommy’s head as I yell, "What do you want NOW?" as I desperately try to connect two sentences and have them play nice. My children and my sentences.

Writing. Very glamorous. I’m like Carrie Bradshaw. Except it’s just a little sex in an overpriced suburb and I’ve been wearing the same pair of shoes for two years.

Would I change anything? Nah, not really. But there are days when I consider how much rest and cash flow security I’d have working for someone else for a while … Not a long while, of course, just a little while.

(Sing to your favorite pirate ditty, "… the writer’s life for me.")

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