I am steeling myself to write three hundred words a day. It sounds like a measly amount, but the task is hard when you have gotten used to writing in bursts that are several months apart, with nothing but dryness in-between. Just as soon as you have settled the first question—of figuring out how many words, exactly, you should be writing each day—a new and more terrifying worry steps in. What will you write about? What will you write about? All the ideas that were shining so luminously in your brain for months as you walked down the street—all those epiphanies that made you exclaim “oh, what a good story that would make!”—have suddenly turned to smoke. Your nice, buoyant feelings of inspiration have been knocked out by decidedly less pleasant sensations. Your throat constricts—the tightness is unbearable!—and your head feels heavy and weightless at the same time. Three hundred words are the merest breath of speech: light enough to throw away on the wind. But how they put you in a tailspin! With one part of your brain, you size up the dilemma. It is absurd, you say; you are bringing this panic upon yourself. But another part of your brain can’t shake the flutter of nerves. Perhaps this panic is the reason you avoided the writing for so long—so long, in fact, that you questioned whether you were really meant to be a writer after all. Your thoughts are soupy, your shoulders are tight, you can’t breathe except in thin, raggedy breaths. Are you terribly sure this is what you want? Maybe being a writer isn’t all you bargained for. Well, you say hopefully, the nausea might get better with time. Till then, you will take the easy route and write about not being able to write. It might be a sort of cheat, a cheap way to meet your quota. But words are words, and you will do what you need to do. So you pull in your chair, roll up your sleeves, and—oh! look there! you’ve already managed three hundred-fifty words. Delighted with the sheer abundance of the number, you fold your hands, congratulate yourself for surpassing the call of duty, and collapse in a tired, befuddled heap.