12:27 a.m. I am reaching a state of near panic, or sheer panic, or clear panic, or drear panic, or ... well, my wheels have locked up and I'm skidding across the icy slick that used to be my mind.

Quite simply, I'm nearly ready to put a project into the mailbox, but I've still got to write some more pages in it. I can't seem to write those pages. If I could just say: "Me want money," I'd be all set. Anything more elaborate than that and I just go into goo-goo mode. As in: I want to climb into bed and put a cold compress on my head and read my House of Leaves until I am brain-dead.

That being said -- I'm in a pure panic here. Can't do it any more. Can't pull my weight. And my weight? Did I mention my weight? There's a sore subject. Plus, I've fallen behind on family responsibilities ... remember when I said I was going to call my mother first thing yesterday?

I was up until 5 a.m. last night/this morning, trying to find those all-important synonyms for "please." I love salesmen; I am married to a man who has to sell things, and I respect the whole idea of selling. But. I'm curling up inside like red-and-white-striped witch legs crushed under the weight of my own inadequacies. I have to find the words and put the letter into the slot.

I know I'll figure it out somehow. I know I don't really have a fever. But I do have a headache and an upset stomach and a winch is twisting the muscles in the back of my neck ... but I know I'll figure it out in the morning. I'll sort it out.

The very first book I ever constructed was for a company in Princeton called International Schools Services. It was the place where I'd taken the temp job for just two weeks. I'd given myself one year exactly after my novel came out to write the next novel and if I didn't write it -- well, it was off to the work force for me. I nearly raced out of the house to Kelly Girl when my year was up.

They sent me out to stuff envelopes. As fate would have it, I was stuffing the company's annual book into padded envelopes and as fate would have it, I took one home to read and a year later I was the new editor in chief of the project. These things happen.

I loved learning on the job and a very nice fellow from Princeton University Press was kind enough to show me some of the book-construction ropes as I felt my way through the woods. Loved every single aspect of putting a book together, except one: I had to sell some ad spaces scattered throughout the book.

Which meant making calls. Asking for money. Gaaaa. That's hard. No wait -- it's impossible. Hideous. Horrible. I made myself make one call every day and I hated it and then I loved it when I actually sold an ad. Then I hated it all over again.

To start with, I don't like to make phone calls. I always, always picture the person at the other end rolling his or her eyes. Always. Or maybe the person is asleep, or just waking up or just sitting down to dinner. I'd starve if I had to telemarket my way to fortune.

As my mother always says, it's better to take in ironing. Yikes. My mother. Must call her. Maybe I can sell her on the idea that I have a real job. It is real. It's just really hard sometimes.

Oh, poor me. I'm sure I'm coming down with something. I have a fevered brow. I must press it to the pillow now.