(It's like five minutes, but spicy!)
The last green until Easter courses through my bloodstream, so I'm being fancy with the word sprint. And by fancy, I mean multi-lingual.
With the gun placed to his head, Toby realized he had no choice but to write.
You know that thing you do when you have writer's block? That whole "What would I write if I had a gun to my head?" Welp, now he knows. Thanks to the worst birthday gift of ever consisting of Sharon hiring a real-life hitman to break into the house, put a loaded .380 to Toby's head, and tell him to start writing, the words flowed from Toby's fingers like they never had before.
They were glorious words, words with meaning, words with passion. They were the best words to ever be written. By Toby, anyway. He was delirious with joy and wonder. "Sonuvabitch," he thought, "it actually worked!"
Toby continued to write as though his life depended upon it, which it quite literally did. An untapped reservoir of ideas and concepts continued to fly upon the page, unbidden. He looked at what he was writing, realizing he had the bare bones foundation of a brilliant story. It would be the Great American Novel. It would be everything Toby ever dreamed he would write.
But Sharon, being a total bitch, couldn't let him have that. After an hour, the gunman made Toby delete everything he had written and then stole the laptop. Fucking Sharon.