At Least He Knows How To Fish

How come I have been able to write tall tales, pages numbering into a near value of infinity, with word spewing nonsense about silly and, in a great burst of retrospection, rather useless subjects for, let’s say, a course in University; but when it comes to writing a fantastical themed story from the ground up with characters I am starting to like, and consider my own, my fingers hover over the keyboard like some sort of indecisive hawk with a dreadful phobia for rodents?

Perhaps it’s a lingering and hidden compulsion to not mess up something I care about.

Perhaps it’s a lack of creativity, or rather, lack of active creativity.

Perhaps I just suck at creating scenes and explaining in a pronounceable language a world and character interactions that solely exist in my mind (and in a GIMP file called ‘World Map’).

I hate introspection. Screw it, I’m going to go pet a cat and sit in the sun. The story isn’t going anywhere.

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