The first line is easy. The second isn't going quite so well and I'm already having doubts. Can I make that scan better? Second sentence? The next one? I decide it's best to stick with the original. At least in the first draft.

Don't get bogged down in trivial details.

Change lines not words.

The IDEA is what matters.

I recite my mantra, first in thought, then whispered aloud to the empty flat to get the point across. It's freezing in here. The IDEA has a limit, a half-life, and if it starts to decay the whole thing will fall apart. I think í'll scream if that happens again.

It's 12:58. I can't get it out… And you can stop that right now. Let's try this instead; my skull has become impermeable and the words can't get through, either onto the page or wherever unwritten stories go to die. They, the words, have been rattling around in my brain for what seems like days. The clock tells me only been a few hours but that's bad enough. The first paragraph is terrible and this one isn’t great either. The first line is always easy. I know that the story's dying and I can't afford to waste ideas. They're too precious. I decide to get on with the action, abandon the beginning and get on with the middle. I know the ending will come naturally or not at all. I’ll leave myself a note and try to get on with it.

SOMETHING PROFOUND GOES IN HERE.

There's a knock at the door and I take my hundredth look at the clock. If it's 1:21 in the story it's not very likely I'd answer the door at all. It’s also a very old chestnut indeed but also some vague kind of action at last. Who can it be at this time? The slow Klick-klack of those distinctive footsteps has given it away. The last time I heard them I was hiding in the shadows. Waiting with the knife. The memory of that sharp, shiny blade excites me when I should be afraid. Perhaps he's out there now, two-day-old blood congealing around the slit in the neck His eyes are gone. The fish ate them. Now he's come back. Knocking on my door at this ungodly hour…

Shit. That's "The Monkey's Paw."

And as for "ungodly." Yuck.

Okay, now my character, "hero" would do him too much credit, is using bad language he seems a little grittier and at least he's finally doing something. That's good. I can use it. Perhaps I can change his sex in the rewrite. Change for the sake of change to see what happens. There's nothing wrong with that. It's not much but it’s something. I need coffee. Caffeine is either a great idea or a spectacularly shitty one.

I sip from the steaming mug and look out the window. It's busy out there tonight. There's moonlight and the sound of wings. They're out in force, flying as bats and running as wolves. Crawling like spiders. In the distance I can hear the screams of the nearly damned. It's tough living in the Vampire Quarter. I take another clumsy sip and the syrupy red liquid drips onto my white shirt.

Oh, that's just great. Why not have him turn out to be a ghost and be done with it? I can call it "The Ghost Writer." Won't that be original? Besides, vampires are so boring. I've been writing "The Vampire Patient" for four years now. Fifteen thousand words and rising. Even I can't read it and stay awake. Come to think of it, I could do with some of that now.

The coffee was a terrible idea.

It's 2:07 and I’m more wide awake than ever.

I have to write something. Anything.

On the positive side, I quite like the supernatural twist in the middle, rather than at the end. Something to take it away from the real world. Not vampires, though. Something good.

Sit down. Press those keys.

Go.

For.

It.

Wait! Nothing's happening! The computer's frozen up. All my work, however worthless, is lost! "You stupid machine!" I hope the werewolves next door didn't hear that. They're a bit touchy about noise.

"Don't blame me. You're supposed to be the user."

"And you're a cheap piece of shit. I should have bought the Mac."

"And you've worn out my spellchexker."

"Don't be ridiculous. Besides, look, dialogue! I prefer dialogue to all that description crap anyway. Things are looking up."

"A bit clunky, isn't it?"

"Shut up. What do you know?" The computer seems to be finished and I search for something sharp to press the reset. I don't notice the leads at the back of the computer until they reach my ankle. Are they growing? Yes, they are. The ends sharpen and twist. Helter-skeltering around and around, faster and faster, sharper and sharper until striking like vipers. Into the flesh. Seeking out arteries to invade, then working their way inexorably - nice word! - into my body. "Science fiction…" I gasp through gritted teeth. The pain is incredible. One lead is working its way up my leg, towards my groin. I don't want to think about what it will do when it gets there. Better, better. "…that's… good!"

"What do I do now?"

"You're… the… computer. Take over my… mind… or something."

"Christ, you have got to be kidding. I could do better than that. At least I can spell."

As if by magic, the tentacles are gone. So is the pain, as if it had never been there. And it hadn't, of course.

I reset the computer. Ever lazy, it whirs and whines into action, checking the hard disc for errors. I have saved my work for what it's worth. Now, can I save it?

Shit. "Inexorably" is an adverb. "The road to Hell is paved with adverbs" - Stephen King. This is a major problem. I'm going against my mantra, obsessing with individual words while the whole damn thing is falling apart. The flat is freezing. Depression isn't far behind. Perhaps that's the problem. I always write about misery, death and horror and that means I have to be in a good mood to do it.

Since Susie dumped me it's been difficult to raise the necessary enthusiasm.

Oh, that has torn it. That's ripped "it" into thin shreds and thrown the shreds on the fire and pissed on the ashes. Thinking about her is at the front of a long queue of last straws. The story's well and truly had it now. Time of death: 2:34am. Write it down. What was I thinking? A story about writing a story? From the writer's point of view? You have to be a writer to have writer's block. I hate everything about my so-called story. My character is a sad loner, indecisive and irritating. I despise him. The beginning is weak. As usual, the first line had come easily and without pain but even that now seemed crude and out of place. I don't like the pretentious way it's written in the present tense. I suppose the middle is better than the beginning but that's not saying much. Overall, it's a pathetic, one joke, one page piece of shit.

And as for the ending…

There is no ending.