One night someone knocks at your door. A tall, black man. He speaks with a Jamaican accent. This man tells you that you have to pick one of your many ideas, works in progress, and finish it. That story’s the last one you’ll ever write. He tells you that you have until tomorrow to write as much as you can. He doesn’t tell you what’s going to happen after that.
You have 24 hours to write your story. You have no future, which makes the present that much more important. You can’t tell yourself, “I’ll wait until I become a better writer.” All your ideas, they mean nothing now. Because, whether you like it or not, you won’t get a chance to write them.
This story you’re writing right now, the one the tall man made you choose, is the last thing you’re ever going to write. And you pour everything you have in that story. You want to make it the best thing you ever write. Just in case tomorrow never comes.
So you write and write, your fingers fueled by a passion you didn’t know had. There’s nothing more important than the words you’re writing now. Procrastination is no longer a part of your dictionary.
Of course, I could have just said, “Write like there’s no tomorrow. Write as if you’ve only got this one chance to leave your mark upon the world.” But, hey, I like bizarre analogies.