Three weeks later, I’ve written a grand total of 4020 more words—nothing! Less than 200 words per day. At this rate, it’s going to take me longer than a year to finish the damned book.
I’m sitting on the living room faux-sheep rug with my back against the couch, staring at the blank page opened on my laptop, devoid of any inspiration. The text cursor blinks, mocking me in an intermittent dance that’s become the bane of my existence. As if on cue, my phone rings. The caller ID informs me it’s Carmen, my agent.
I’m tempted to ignore the call, but that would only postpone the conversation by a few hours, a day tops.
I tap the green button. “Carmen.”
“Tell me you have something new for me to show to the editor. A page, a chapter, anything?”
Of the 4000 words I wrote, maybe 3000 are usabl
