It's simple, really. Those pesky deadlines are always far off in the distance, nothing but a glimmer on the horizon. The editor and her needs do not exist. Every day, every scene I experience sparks a new and original idea for articles or stories that the masses will love. I am Tolstoy. I am Fitzgerald. Ideas flow from me like cool water springing forth from the fertile ground of my mind.
Then, five days before it's due, I get that friendly email reminder from the editor, and ideas evaporate like dew on a summer morning. I can't articulate a sentence and the fertile ground of my mind is a barren wasteland. Nothing I think of is interesting, no idea I come up with sounds remotely readable. My ideas are passé, cliched, and overdone. My style is weak. I scramble, I look through old, unused articles. Maybe I can revamp something, maybe I wrote something months ago that I forgot about. But the well is dry.
The deadline is now. The editor sends one more email. I've got nothing. Pressure, frantic pressure builds. I write. It's horrible. I rewrite, it's still horrible. I scrap the whole thing. I email her asking for one more day. She grants it and then I waste my time watching reruns of Gilligan's Island. Mary Ann is hot.
I finally come up with a masterpiece! No, that's a lie, and not even a convincing lie. But I send it to her, anyway. My email is apologetic. "Sorry this sucks so bad. Wait, I meant badly! Or did I? Oh hell, whatever."