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Imagine.

It's a cold winter night in New York City.

You're at your desk.

Well, you call it a desk.

Actually, it's just an old discarded door propped up on two stacks of wooden apple crates.

You're too broke to afford a real desk, a stove, or hot water.

At least the radiator is working tonight, sort of.

You can tell by the smell of rusty iron that it's on, but it's still freezing in your tiny apartment.

You read over the few paragraphs you've managed to write tonight and sigh.

You decide to start over.

This has been your routine for nearly a year, writing and rewriting,

agonizing over every word of this your first novel.

You've rewritten the entire thing more times than you can count.

But it's still just a series of anecdotes.

Not a coherent narrative.

You try to write the passage again.

And again.

It's no use.

Everything you write is often.

Self-doubt courses like poison through your veins.

...