Need comments !!! This is the start of a new short story which will possibly be handed in for assessment, but more likely it won't be.

Warning: Creativity sometimes causes death.

John liked to work late at night that was just the way it was. He needed silence; he needed to hear his thoughts, his fears, and his desires. Sometimes he would just sit in his porch and listen to the sounds of the night. Rain, wind, a neighbour’s cat rummaging through a bin bag, black cabs unloading drunken twenty something’s. He had written several of his best sellers this way. John could find inspiration in anything. Correction, John used to be able to find inspiration in anything. Now it seemed that whatever he wrote was just not good enough, people had high expectations for his next novel. His most recent novel Choose had sold 300,000 copies worldwide; it had been made into a film with Hollywood favourites playing his victims.
He had managed to write four chapters of this new novel, that’s all, his hands were sweaty as he sat staring at the one sentence he had typed of chapter five, the sentence he deleted over and over again, then re-typed it because he couldn’t think of anything better. John knew what the problem was, he was feeling unbelievably guilty, he could not shake the fucking feeling off. It was all about money, he had too much of it, stupid amounts of money. He didn’t deserve it. There was a time when he would write for fun, for enjoyment. Now he had to keep his agent sweet, he had to satisfy his fans, had to meet deadlines. He wanted out. This novel would be the last thing he wrote, if he ever managed to complete it.
Of course his wife wouldn’t let him give up writing. Money, holidays, material things all mattered to her. He smirked as he thought about the woman he had met twenty years ago, she would beg him to fuck her on the back seats of her mom’s Fiesta, she would run from taxi’s to avoid paying, she would dance laughing in the rain. That woman was long gone. He was scared his kids would change too. Danny was too young to understand the fame game, but Molly, well Molly was like a carbon copy of her mother.
Whenever he got writers block he would log onto the message forum on his website and read the latest comments. One fan in particular, Johnny likes to die he called himself, seemed to be obsessed with John’s novels. This guy would regularly post messages to other fans, “in Choose which way would you prefer to die?” or comments like “just read Choose for the fifth time and watched the film for the tenth time today. I fucking love the bit where Catherine gets beheaded. Man I’d love to rub her blood all over my hard cock.” John was thankful he would never have to meet the sick son of a bitch.
John was thinking about calling it a night, yet he was finding it hard to sleep next to his wife lately. He had stayed up late every night for the past month, just to get away from her. Sometimes he would masturbate in the pool whilst he thought about the cute blonde across the street with the firm ass and plastic enhanced DD’s. It had been raining hard all night; John poured a scotch and stood watching the rain through the kitchen window. He was waiting for inspiration to strike. Nothing. He poured another scotch and turned his back to the window. A cat walked across the window ledge, its shriek made John drop his glass. “Fuck. Fucking hell, stupid cat”.
John knelt down and began to pick up the pieces of broken glass. He could hear a faint tapping at the front door. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, it was probably the wind knocking the hanging basket against the porch window. John sighed as he began turning the lights of; it was time for him to lie down next to the ice cold bitch. On the third step he heard the tapping again. He turned and put the hall light on, and unlocked the heavy oak front door. The porch was cold, he looked through the glass, nothing was there, but he could still hear the tapping. It was really pissing him of. Pushing his feet into his slippers he opened the porch door, and stepped outside into the rain. The hanging basket was swaying to and fro, John lifted the basket off the peg and placed it on the floor. Dirt spilled out all over his slippers,”fuck” he hissed as he crouched down and began pushing dirt off his feet.