3:18 a.m. Tonight I'm laboring mightily to get my first journal entry completed for this brand new, wonderful, secret project that I'm involved with. The big launch day is Monday and I have to have my piece in tomorrow, so you can imagine. It would help if I owned a globe.

Why, why, why do I wait until the last possible moment to write? I know why -- but I still lament. I might as well let you in on a little secret. I put off writing until the deadline is so close I can see its dewclaws because I fear that if I had time enough to make it good enough, it wouldn't be ... good enough.

I figure if I slam something together in the shortest possible time I can be proud of myself for just finishing the work. It's not as good as I could make it, I tell myself, because there just wasn't enough time. What a crock, eh?

Last month was my first time as Opinion editor for Metajournals, the nifty online magazine about this new phenomenon of public journals on the web. As editor I get to see first-hand how different writers approach their own deadlines. One of the three writers in that issue, Tamar, sent her piece in early. I was so pleasantly surprised. Complete, polished, professional, early. I was just amazed and impressed, I have to say.

I should have taken notes. I should have bought a globe at some point in my life. It's always a good idea to know where you are.

And I've known about my own personal secret project deadline for -- oh, let's see -- two weeks now? And each day before today was sweet, sweet indeed. It's fun to be bad, to let things slide. To skip class and go to the Dairy Queen.

I really did that one time. And only one time. Skipped class -- played hooky. With a boy, no less. It was 1963. I got in his car and we went to the Dairy Queen for some soft swirly ice cream cones. It was late November. I don't remember the exact flavor I ordered. I don't remember the boy's name or the make of his car.

What I do remember is hearing the radio behind the grill where the girl who was supposed to be getting our ice cream was supposed to be standing. She had left her station and the cash register was unattended and we were left to stand there wondering what the hell was going on. Had the world gone mad?

November 23, 1963. Who doesn't remember?

The moral here would be: always do the right thing. The president would still be going to Dallas, but at least you could cry on your best friend's shoulder instead of staring into the forgettable eyes of a guy you'll never see again.

And do your writing on time, and maybe even early. It won't change your rejection/success ratio one iota, but it will make you feel very proud of yourself. Plus, you'll confound and astonish your editor. That's got to count for something.

So -- it's only 4:23 a.m. The piece is due in -- what? 14 hours? Sheesh. I've got plenty of time. Wanna go out for a soda?