Seven Days of Doubt

Weekly writing prompts - enter the world's largest writing contest.

The words blared from his screen, their heaviness bearing down on his chest like an anvil. The subject line glared in his inbox, an unspoken taunt challenging him to open it. Alan breathed shakily, his heart thudding in his ears. His fingers quivered over the mouse before he clicked at last. Five new prompts. Seven days to write something. Seven days to battle his doubts, wrestle with every word, and pray that his best would be sufficient.

The ritual was always the same, though never easier. He'd read over each prompt, let them simmer in his head, waiting—no, pleading—for one of them to spark something: a scene, a character, a glimmer of a plot.

But inspiration was mercurial, a ruthless ghost that either possessed him entirely or had him clutching at nothing. Some weeks, the ideas stormed through him in a deluge of energy, vital and incessant. Other weeks, they would not come, and he'd sit staring at the blank page with an emptiness that his mind betrayed him when he needed it most.

His gaze swept over the prompts.

1. A letter comes in the mail, and all is changed.
2. You have 24 hours to repair your worst error.
3. The door at the end of the hall is always locked. Until today.
4. A secret that you've kept for years suddenly gets out.
5. Write a story that occurs entirely in one room.

His mind reeled, each question unfolding before him like an impossible maze, each path promising brilliance or catastrophe. A cryptic letter—secrets with the power to ruin lives. A time-is-running-out redemption tale—the awful weight of failure pressing down upon him. A forbidden door—the unknown, hanging in wait, calling. He breathed harder. The choices weren't just intimidating; they were overwhelming, a cruel ticking clock to a deadline that wouldn't tolerate certainty.

Alan dragged a shaking hand through his already-disheveled hair, his scalp searing with frustration. Slowly, the panic crawled up his throat, a choking presence that whispered failure, wasted effort, time slipping through his fingers like sand. He'd stood here before—drowning, gasping, sure he wouldn't make it. But he'd lived. And damn it, he'd live again.

He grabbed his new bag of coffee beans, his hand closing around it with newfound resolve. He scooped a heaping amount into the grinder and hit the button. The mechanical whir sliced through the oppressive silence, a war cry in the stillness of his apartment.

Seven days. Seven days to struggle. Seven days to overcome doubt. Seven days to write a short story.

He was prepared.

He mumbled, "Let the words flow."

Day one

For several hours, he battled against the empty pages, his pen cutting through words like a warrior in combat. Thoughts poured out of his head in desperate spurts, knotted and unrefined, to be shredded and rewritten. He muttered curses under his breath, annoyance constricting his lungs. A first paragraph took shape— hideous, deformed, dead. He wadded up the page, threw it aside, and began anew.

The coffee pot was emptied, refilled, emptied again, a lifeline tying him to consciousness as the hours melted together, his hope diminishing with each unsuccessful try.

Day two

He struggled to maintain his concentration, his fingers dashing against the keyboard, hesitating, and then on again. The words streamed in bursts—some crisp and polished, others stilted and contorted. Halfway through the rough draft, a wave of doubt broke over him like a wave. What if it wasn't good enough? What if every sentence, every thought, was meaningless? His heart pounding, his breathing quickened. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to continue. He could not stop now. Not when the story was beginning to take shape, frail but alive.

Day three

He had a rough draft. It was sloppy, imperfect, hanging precariously in the balance. His fingers hovered above the keys, the urge to erase it all clawing at him like a merciless predator. The words were all wrong. The beat was off. The characters were strangers. But still—it was there.

Something real, hauled out of the depths of his battered brain and wrestled into existence. His breath hitched as he leaned back and looked at the mess on the screen.

It was not beautiful. It was not even good. But it was there. It waited for him to finish it. And for now, that was enough. A small, defiant victory against the void.

Day four

The draft was finished finally, but instead of relief, a dreadful weight settled on his chest. He stared at the pages, his heart pounding, his breath uneven. What if it wasn't good enough? What if everything had been for nothing?

He pushed his fear aside and forced himself to start reading, sentence by sentence, dissecting every word, every rhythm, every emotion. His red pen darted back and forth—crossing out, underlining, scribbling frantic notes in the margins. The grammar was awkward. The flow was staccato. Some of the scenes fell flat, some were hollow.

There was a lump in his throat. So much to repair. So much to alter. The mountain in front of him seemed impossibly high, but he gritted his teeth, making himself press on. He'd gotten so far. He couldn't allow himself to break now.

Day five

Editing was hell. Every word was like an unyielding rock, mocking him with their stubbornness. He asked himself, the weight of perfection suffocating his chest. Was this acceptable? Should he have to do it again?

His stomach cried out yes, but his weary brain refused to comply. And then catastrophe occurred—his cursor stuck, the screen locked up, and in one terrible instant, the document crashed. His heart slammed into his rib cage. Panicked, he clicked, reopened, searched. The file remained—but half of his meticulous edits disappeared.

A gasping breath was torn from him. He wished he could scream. Throw the laptop. Just walk away. But he could not. Not now. Not after all this. He began again, trembling hands struggling through the ruins of his own prose, refusing to give up.

Day six

He read his narrative out loud, voice trembling like a man standing on the edge of a precipice. Each word was fragile, each sentence a test of his will. The self-doubt was still there, roiling in his stomach like smoke, insisting it still wasn't good enough. But as he kept reading, something changed. His voice steadied.

The words, which had once been a chaotic tangle, started to find their rhythm. The dialogue untangled. The pacing steadied. His pen scratched furiously, crossing out weak points, rewriting clumsy sentences, cutting away the fat until something true, something strong, began to take shape.

His chest constricted—not with fear now, but with something odd, something nearly prideful. It wasn't yet perfect, but for the first time he was able to view it for what it was: a story worth telling. The finish line was coming into view. Victory was close.

Day seven

He hovered over the "Submit" button, his pulse a relentless drumbeat in his ears, his vision blurring from exhaustion. His entire week—the doubts that had consumed him like ravenous wolves, the battles waged against his own brain, the sleepless, frantic nights of word-wrestling—had boiled down to this. His hands trembled. His heart pounded. A deep breath. His finger hovered, uncertainty tightening around his throat like a noose.

What if it wasn't enough? What if he had lost? The silence in his apartment was stifling, closing in on him all around. He clenched his eyes shut, pushing the fear back. He had struggled for this. He had endured for this. He had spilled his blood for this. And now—now it was time to let it go.

His finger pushed the button.

Completed.

A tidal wave of emotion washed over him. Relief. Terror. Triumph. His chest shook with a shuddering breath, one he hadn't realized he'd been holding for days. He'd done it. Not against the world. Not against the competition. But against the fear, the paralyzing self-doubt, the overwhelming weight of his own expectations.

Victory was his, and it tasted of freedom. A sigh escaped him in a trembling, drawn-out breath, his chest still constricted by the residual traces of tension. The week had exhausted him, left him panting, clinging to the brink of collapse. His eyes burned, his legs and arms ached, but the war was won—or so he believed.

Then—a second ping. The noise cut through the quiet like a knife, his heart racing as if touched by lightning. A new jolt of fear stabbed through him, cold and slashing.

No, not again.

Not yet.

His breathing was shallow, his hand trembling as it lay on the mouse. He swallowed once, then clicked. The words he knew so well stared back at him.

Weekly writing prompts - enter the world's largest writing contest.