MATT, a strangely disappointing excuse of a man, stares with glazed eyes, the sort of glaze that is usually reserved for doughnuts, at a computer screen containing a BLANK document .
The CURSOR taunts him.
His well is dry, fortunately he has indoor plumbing – even in the north of England, but that isn’t helping him now.
MATT’s fingers glide over the keyboard as he types.
It would seem Matt is shit at typing. He deletes, and starts again, SLOWLY.
Ideas = 0.
Pages = 0.
I’m already behind in the page count, and it’s only just gone midnight.