Last weekend I spent 15 hours on a piece of writing, and every single minute hurt. The thesis was murky, the words weren’t coming, and by the end nearly every sentence had been moved, rewritten, and deleted several times. I knew I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to write it, but I pushed hard until I was, or thought I was, and the result was—I can see now—the editorial embodiment of a wince. I sent it to the editor for fear of missing my deadline.
We sent an email to with a link to finish logging in.