One blank sheet. Seven days. Three hundred words. That was last Sunday. Now it's one blank sheet. One day. Three hundred words.

Three hundred. There was a film about three hundred Romans fighting over which of them got to kill the army poet who wrote a crap victory poem.  In the end they all killed him three hundred times, and then burned the poem.

Proust never had this problem. Three hundred words is just one sentence for Proust. Get up at lunch, eat one Madeleine, drink coffee, think about mother, voilà three hundred words. I try this, but fail at Madeleine stage fortunately.

I wonder what Reacher would do. Reacher wouldn't be in this position. Suggest to Reacher that he produces three hundred words a week, he'd be straight down the nearest bus station. Nobody writes with a folding toothbrush.

So what to do?  Obviously the only thing to do is sit in an empty room with the blank page and the pen until this thing is done. Engage brain, satisfy obligation. Get it done. So I go outside, fire up the log splitter and split three hundred logs into enough fire wood to last two years, which takes nine hours leaving just fifteen hours to do this thing.

Fifteen hours. Need stamina. Need food for stamina. I go out for fish and chips. Eat watching a Christmas Carol starring a seven foot bearded Jesus creature dressed in a velvet green dressing gown open to the waist. He has nothing underneath the gown save for two homeless children called Doom and Gloom. I empathise with Doom and Gloom, try and concentrate on doing this thing but just cannot get out from underneath the velvet green dressing gown

One hour to go. This thing is not going to get done.