This week is easily turning into the roughest week of my entire freelance writing career.

Clients, despite frequent reminders, are dragging their heels on payments. Usually cheery editors are on edge because of mass layoffs in their companies. I’m working on three stories, all of which are in three different time zones and with short deadlines, which means I’ve been staying awake for twenty-hour stretches with no end in sight.

I may be a little grumpy.

As incentive to finish a piece last week, I promised myself that I’d watch Slumdog Millionaire once I was done. But then, article completed, I couldn’t be bothered. There’s been so much hype about the movie that I know I’m inevitably going to be disappointed. Everyone keeps asking me what I make of it, and seeing as I’m not an authority on the subject (movies or slums), I’m hesitant to voice any opinion. (I’m surrounded by journalists who consider me their go-to India person!)

Too bad, because I was really looking forward to watching it. I saw The Secret Life of Bees instead. (Highly recommended.)

In the “Isn’t that weird?” department, ever since I declared that I was now focusing on non-fiction writing exclusively, people seem to be coming out of the woodwork. Now that I’m no longer desperate for new avenues of creativity, I’ve been asked to contribute fiction, produce a video, and take photos. All for pay.

I’ve said yes to most of it. I can sleep when I’m dead, right?