During the time when I'd normally have written a blog post or two, gone on a long run, and made some tortilla soup, the world had helped us to create several brand new things
It was 2:45 p.m., fifteen minutes before the end of the 48-hour period we'd assigned ourselves to complete the third issue of Longshot Magazine, a project I cofounded. As we surveyed the offices at Gawker, checking in on our digital team, which had built a website from scratch, and our print designers, who had done the same, we realized something: we weren't going to make it.
Everything was 99 percent done, but that last percent was tough enough that we weren't even going to be close enough to declare victory and go have a beer before applying the finishing touches later in the afternoon.
It was a tense moment. Despite the almost total lack of sleep, the weekend had gone remarkably well. Gawker's Joel Johnson was a fantastic host and the offices were amazing. Hundreds and hundreds of essays, interviews, and other articles came in, the product of people's sweat and tears. So many of them were good. Like, really good. We were simultaneously high on the quality and heartbroken that they wouldn't all go into the print magazine. (I have never been able to adequately describe the horrible feeling of going through submissions for Longshot. I have so much gratitude for everyone who chooses to spend their Friday and Saturday working on something for the magazine. And yet I know we will disappoint and/or anger some of the very people whose work I admire.)