One day a procrastinator sat up in bed, looked around, dislodged the angry cat from their legs, and decided to finally join a writing forum. Perhaps, they thought while lavishing the cat with scritches, this will motivate me to actually write something. Unfortunately, it was not so and Wilbur the laptop sat alone and forgotten with his blank documents, sobbing quietly in zeroes and ones.
Two novels ruminated in their own creative juices inside the potential writers head. Crowded, bumped, and occasionally overshadowed by newer, more shinier ideas. Yet their tantalising presentation could not be forgotten and the procrastinator reluctantly set about fleshing the ideas out.
A massive fantasy was born! Of gods that created diseases and ate children (the younger the better) coupled with a religious take over destined to wipe them off the map. Of racial persecution, culture shock, and the danger of magic that follows rules and guidelines. Of intrigue, political scandal, torture and plots gone horribly, horribly wrong.
And behold! Another story was born! This one a massive science fiction event, with a horrendous title that doesn't do it justice! Of a race united under one Queen and the well-intentioned mistake of loving aliens. Of the slow descent into madness and addiction (one and the same indeed) and planetary take-over. Of reliance on technology, paranoid preventions, and petty revolutions.
And the writer looked back on those plots, characters, worlds, and paragraphs. The writer saw that it was good. The writer prepared their fingers above the keyboard, tensing in anticiaption. And saw that a new Terry Pratchett book was out. And the writer went to the library, borrowed the book and forgot all about writing the story.
And the cat laughed, for its evil plan of distraction was well on the way.
Two novels ruminated in their own creative juices inside the potential writers head. Crowded, bumped, and occasionally overshadowed by newer, more shinier ideas. Yet their tantalising presentation could not be forgotten and the procrastinator reluctantly set about fleshing the ideas out.
A massive fantasy was born! Of gods that created diseases and ate children (the younger the better) coupled with a religious take over destined to wipe them off the map. Of racial persecution, culture shock, and the danger of magic that follows rules and guidelines. Of intrigue, political scandal, torture and plots gone horribly, horribly wrong.
And behold! Another story was born! This one a massive science fiction event, with a horrendous title that doesn't do it justice! Of a race united under one Queen and the well-intentioned mistake of loving aliens. Of the slow descent into madness and addiction (one and the same indeed) and planetary take-over. Of reliance on technology, paranoid preventions, and petty revolutions.
And the writer looked back on those plots, characters, worlds, and paragraphs. The writer saw that it was good. The writer prepared their fingers above the keyboard, tensing in anticiaption. And saw that a new Terry Pratchett book was out. And the writer went to the library, borrowed the book and forgot all about writing the story.
And the cat laughed, for its evil plan of distraction was well on the way.
