Oh! Pity the day a writer has no story! There is no worse feeling in the world than to be so close to joy, only to be restricted by the apprehension to make it perfect and the lack of perfect ideas!
Curse the cursor, blinking in rapt impatience for words that will not come! Heaven afflict the blank page that will not fill! Even these words are nothing but torment, for they only give me a glimpse of what I could have! These shall not stay with me, but perish by my own hand for they fail to construct the story I bid them to. They laugh at their disobedience and spurn that who is their creator and will-be destroyer. Ignorant fools! Why must you be shadows to that of your counterparts, those words who have created magic, populations, and even entire worlds? Why must you take delight in my suffering?
But of course… It is my suffering that springs you to life. This is why you continue to ail me. You must, or you will face a quicker demise. The more I work, the less chance you have of dying. Selfish creatures! Yet I admire your ruse. It is working. You make me wish to strike you out like the omnipotent God sending his flood! But I have not the strength, at least not so without cause. I cannot kill you, because although I wrote you in anger I love you… And I hate you for it.
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