My fingers freeze over the keyboard and a cold panic grips me. I stare at the page in terror, nearly hyperventilating. The guy who dreamt up this scheme of writing a novel in thrity days flat, no editing and no revising along the way, is a born fool who knows nothing about novelling. Storytelling isn't some sort of sport, for Chrissake! It's an art. A careful craftmanship where ham-handed carelessness can destroy the most precious potential. You can't just charge into it like a bull elephant in a china shop, with no idea where you're going or what you're doing. You could ruin your story. Just ruin it, so the beauty that shines in your mind's eye like a crystal star will lie in heartbreaking shambles before you're a third of the way through. That's what you're risking here. Without the perfect word and the perfect turn of phrase and the perfect timing...why even try if the end result will never be as perfect the picture that exists in your mind?
The page stares blankly at me.
I stare back at it, willing the perfect words to spew from my fingertips onto the keys.
My fingers quiver nervously over the keyboard. The page is still blank.
My story beats its fists against my skull, pounding an agony at my temples, fighting to be let loose into the world.
The page is still blank.