It has happened again. It wasn’t by choice, it never is. But somehow, someway, I always end up finding myself in deep trouble that seems to have no end.
My fingers keep missing the
mark. I try, but I keep failing. This is torment of the most awful sort. What
sort of writer cannot write? And yet there I was, a self-proclaimed writer,
who, you guessed it, could not write.
There’s more to this story. I was
with drunken fingers on a dancing keyboard with roughly 4000 words to write and
only a few hours to do it in. Normally, that amount of words in that amount of
time would be a breeze; but now, it was a hurricane, and I don’t mean that in a
good way.
How did I get there? And why
were the words “Help me!” repeating in my mind?
It all started when a friend
asked me to help him out.
