Attempting to write a book tests the nerves quite a bit. Unlike a blog entry which is written in a moments inspiration, consciously penning down the words of a story is like pushing an elephant through slushy mud. I’m crawling through the pages; my mind wanders all the time and I shudder when I read what I’ve written. It’s so awful, I have a grimace permanently etched on my face.

The scarcely filled notebook makes me feel guilty all the time. I know I’ll never get these three months of absolute freedom again. Yet having twenty four hours a day to myself has done little to inspire me.

I know that I do not want to turn thirty and realize that I’m single, pot bellied, grouchy, unhappy at the office and have done absolutely nothing with my life.

Okay, back to staring at the notebook again. Write you miserable SOB! Write!