A bead of sweat fell onto the keyboard, and my stomach twisted into a knot. The cool metal against my temple did little to quell the fire ignited by my fear of dying. The screen blurred as the salt of my perspiration stung my eyes.

"I can't think with that gun pointed at me!" My voice sounded weak despite my attempt at bravado.

"Close your trap and write, you piece of crap." Myra's words were slurred from the alcohol she'd guzzled as she forced me at gunpoint to write.

Myra Collins was my book agent. What a bitch, she'd turned out to be! I wish I'd never signed that contract a year ago. I pitched my story idea and everything had gone so well until it hadn't...

I was two-thirds of the way through the first draft and I woke up one morning and stared at the computer unable to find the words to write. I tried everything. Writing whatever came into my head. I got a lot of pages of "I don't know what to write. I'm a failure. What made me think I could be an author."

I went online to a writer's forum and got a lot of advice on what others had done. Exercise, handwrite your ideas, meditate... So many great ideas and none of them worked for me. I took a little break from writing hoping it would kickstart my creative side if I didn't force myself.

It didn't work. The days stretched into weeks, a month... I reread what I'd written so far and wished I hadn't. The rough draft was proof positive in my eyes that I was kidding myself. Too bad I spent the advance Myra had given me.

Maybe I was the guy who had one book in them? One best seller and then I became a clue in the Sunday paper's crossword puzzle -- Author of Red Robin Hood . Would anyone even care enough to include me?

"Stop your damn day-dreaming and write, write, WRITE!!!!"

Her face darkened with hostility appearing as red as the lipstick-tinged lip of the gin bottle she held in her left hand. It was half empty and I wondered how much more booze it would take to incapacitate her. Or would she end my life first?

If motivation was the only thing needed to create, I sure as hell had enough to write ten books. Maybe I could pay her back? I didn't have enough money in my savings. That's why I used the advance. Maybe if I offered to sleep with her?

One glance at her swollen face and figure and I knew I couldn't be inspired to do that either. Even if it meant my death.

The click of the hammer being cocked back stilled my mind and I froze, closing my eyes as if doing so would keep me from dying. I held my last breath, waiting.

Baam!!

My eyes shot open -- oh God! Myra lay unconscious at my feet. I grabbed my cell.

"Hey, Siri. Dial 911. Hurry!"