It’s the end of the week. How does that feel that’s different now from all the other end-of-weeks when I was working full-time? I wrote the other day about what I love and what I hate about this job. This is a different question.
This past week has been like a time capsule. Can I still keep on top of all the many pieces that go into the magazine, and keep them moving so we can meet the deadline for the printer? There is always a moment on closing day, Friday, when I have to be doing three things at once: today it was double-checking the page proofs of one of the main features, finishing off two different color pages, and rewriting table of contents entries when one story dropped out and a new one was put in. This week was relatively easy; no major stories came in late; no editors disappeared when they were needed.
And I feel nothing but relief that I do not have to go back next week and go through the process all over again. Next week, I can stay home, do some freelance work at my leisure, write, go for a walk, do some cooking, all at my leisure. And read the New York Times for as long as I like in the morning. Now that’s luxury.