Unfinished

    Friday was the final day of my internship, and it was utterly surreal. Not only because of how quickly-yet-slowly the weeks had passed, in that odd quantum paradox where it feels like you've barely started the thing and yet feel like you've been doing it forever. That was part of it, but the whole day was odd. It was the first time that none of my three editor overlords were present. I was all on my own, which was nice, because I had a tone of work to get done, and I didn't need distractions and extra work shoved at me. It was also strange, and a little lonely. And the other surreal element came from the massive amount of work I had to do.
     For the past month and a half I had had project after project and manuscript after manuscript handed to me. I had new assignments every day, in addition to work that the previous intern had kindly left behind. I quickly learned that, in publishing, no one is ever caught up with their work. It's impossible. There's just too much. So I didn't feel too guilty about the massive pile of stuff that had stuck around on my desk the whole time. But I hate leaving things unfinished, so I had set myself a goal to get through as much as I possibly could on my last day. There were several things that I absolutely needed to finish, including some rejections, a manuscript read-through, and whole ton of filing.
     It was Friday, so quite a few people hadn't even bothered to show up, and those who were there were in a particularly casual mood. A group of editors actually whipped a cheese and wine picnic out of nowhere partway through the day. I normally would have enjoyed eavesdropping on their conversations and generally feeling superior about doing more work than them, but as it was, I had a pile of stuff to dig through, and I wished they'd be quiet. And this was where the surreal element of the day came in, because I just worked and worked, in an almost trancelike state of desperate calm, all the while aware that time was moving onward and that I had a deadline.
    By six o'clock in the afternoon, the time I usually left, practically everyone was gone, and I realized that I just wasn't going to finish. I set a new goal. I singled out certain things that I absolutely had to get done. And I kept on going.
    At this point I was starting to feel nervous. I became convinced that I was the only person left in the entire building. I don't like being in big buildings by myself. And what if the sun started to set? Already it seemed as though the streets outside were a bit more shadowed than they had been earlier. I was getting hungry, and tired, but I just kept going.
    I finished the essential stuff, mostly, by eight o'clock. The sun had not yet set. I had been sitting at my desk for eleven hours. I had hit my limit. I was leaving.
    I brought the massive amount of filing that I had not had time to do up to my editor overlord's office, and I put my ID card on the desk of another nice editor, who had offered to turn it in for me on Monday, and I took some final pictures of key spots where I had interned, and I left the building for the last time.
    I was proud of myself. I had told myself at the beginning that I would get through this by being slow and thorough. I would handle the pressure by just doing all I could do and not worrying. And I had done a good job. I had survived. And I had actually, once I gained some confidence and stopped stressing out about singlehandedly bringing down the company, enjoyed my work. I was sad to leave. I would miss that place. I would miss being surrounded by books being born. I would miss the free pizza on Wednesdays.
    I had one more thing I had to finish, and I did it on my room on my own computer late Friday night, because like I said, I hate leaving things unfinished.