It begins innocuously enough. After a productive evening that yielded 1600 words, you pat yourselves on the shoulder and say, "Well done, writer. Give yourself a break. Don't write tomorrow. You earned it."

The following day, more often or not the weekened, you head out to the cinemas and enjoy two hours of mindless action fest. You head back home and sprawl yourself on the bed, sleeping your afternoon away. Your mind marvels at this feeling, the feeling of freedom, free of the burden of not being expected to crank up scene after scene with carefully chosen words every single day. Novelty that accompanies initial creation wears out quickly. The alarm bells ring in your head. Still, you brush them aside. "Nonsense," you say to yourself. "It's not a burden. I love writing. There's a really emotional scene that I will be writing tomorrow. I just need a rest to charge up my engines."

Then came tomorrow, probably a Sunday. You start up the computer, and after you arrive at the desktop screen you realized that your engines needed another round of charging. Besides that scene is really emotional, you definitely wouldn't do justice to it if you wrote it while not in peak condition. Excuses, a voice says at the back of your head. You just want to skip hard work part of writing. You are reaching the stage where you would rather watch paint dry than grind out words in the editor. Remember, you are like a marathon runner; once you stop, you are going to find it difficult to get the momentum to start again.

Wise words, but you rebuke. It's just another day, what difference would it make? You then proceed to start up the favourite computer game then you hadn't touch for a month. The feeling of freedom returns, stronger. "Damn, I missed conquering the world and gaining levels. Screw that main protagonist and his family issues. Screw his angsty behavior."

You play deep into midnight.

Monday arrives. You wake up, feeling blurry. Images of the computer game continue to play out in your head.

"You got to write the thing now. You promised."

Grumbling, you start up the editor, continuing where the text had left off. To your horror, what seemed like a tear-inducing event merely a month ago during planning stage, now irked you completely. You gave it a try nonetheless, bu the words wouldn't come. Even if they did, you would erase them and replace them with another and erase them again...

What the heck is going on? Why can't I get into that writing spree again? After sitting your arse numb on the chair for a good two hours, only four hundred words accumulated, and they consisted of unconvincing description, excretable dialogue and strange actions.

What's with the ghost plunging down the sky, his arms spread out wide like a cringe-worthy Titanic moment? What's with him acting like a fool in front of his two mourning brothers? (Its a way to mask his personal grief and intensify it at the same... SHUT UP! What a bunch of bull) And to top it all off, you try to go all poetic with "Always beautiful. Those brilliant red hues" for the sunset. Not prose that would get nominated for the Nobel Literature Prize, but it does the job. Then you have to fuck it up by adding "Always frustrating. Those f #$%$# traffic jams". As if the reader didn't know what those symbols stand for, and don't go telling me that it's for PG purposes. When you start using vulgarities, it's an indication that you have lost it, clear and simple.

Your mind wants out. Your mind wants that recently tasted freedom, the freedom of gaining experience points, of slashing enemies and rescuing allies. Now that's pure ecstasy! No need for hard work. Imagine, after that you could probably head out and watch another flick that your friends have recommended highly. Better than

Sitting down and writing a crapfest that you didn't care for.

You sigh. That's number twenty to thrown into the list of uncompleted symphonies.

You abandon the project.