Bob sat looking out the window watching the rain bounce tirelessly upon the blooming daffodils in his front gargen. It was three o clock in the afternoon. He had no idea how long he had been staring blindly as his mind travelled across the mists of possibility. He was only too aware of the size of the task facing him, this labour of love that had presented itself. Would he ever finish it? Would it be good enough, worthy of the title of sequel? Who the heck was he to think for one moment he had any right, not to mention ability, to accomplish this. And what of his peers, would they deride or politely sympathise at his labour of love.
Who cares, he summoned up, I would rather try and fail miserably than not to give it a shot. But courage and belief on board, he still had not written a single word. A rather inauspicious start indeed, his old english teacher might have said, had he had the benefit of his sound advice.
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