I sat at the table last night, staring at the backlit screen, cursor blinking after the last word I had written more than a day ago. I stared, waiting on inspiration to strike, the self-imposed deadline I set weighing heavily in the back of my mind. 

If I don’t write at least 1,000 words tonight, I am going to start falling irrecoverably behind. 

Guess how many words I wrote? Zero. Not a single one. The crushing weight of the deadline combined with the heaviness of circumstance made it an unconquerable feat. 

Why didn’t anyone tell me about the pressure? This damn pressure. It was absent for my first book. I was entirely unrestrained, freely creating a world that knew no bounds because I had no bounds placed about me. 

But, the second book knows I’m afraid. It knows failure is something I won’t face. 

I trust that at some point inspiration will strike, and when it does I’ll go on a frenzy, and I think my characters will likely enliven because of this delirium.

I’ll sit down and try to write again tonight. That part, at least, I can control. 

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