Neville paced the room. He made a fourth cup of coffee. He sat. He stood. He paced again.
He knew he couldn’t do it. Everything was against him. He had spent three days and still there was no outcome. He’d hardly slept.
“Damn it,” he thought, “I’m going out to weed the garden.” Not that he had much of a garden. It was simply a tiny spot where he grew some parsley and some Swiss chard. Still, the occasional weed popped up. He weeded. He hoed. He watered.
He came inside and vacuumed the house. He dusted everything. He even rearranged some of the furniture. He washed the laundry and hung it out to dry. Would the day never end? Aha! He did some ironing. He never ironed.
“Well,” thought Neville, “I shall prepare a lovely, large and extremely unhealthy dinner. In fact, I shall get rotten drunk.”
He had just begun to peel the second potato when it hit him. Rushing into his office, he hastily typed: Rigor mortis had just set in. And that was that.
His novel was finished.