Once upon a time, on a dark and dreary day, a haunted writer stared at the incredible scene on the before her. She pondered how to describe it best. Cliche phrases like "epic battle against the forces of evil" and "nothing like it had ever been seen before" kept plaguing her. This wouldn't do. The scene demanded much more subtly and deftness. In all honestly, it demanded a true craftsman. But she was alone and it had started to rain.

She stomped her feet in the damp cold and blew on her hands. Her home was filled with half finished stories. Well, actually half started stories. Her trash overflowed with crumpled bits of paper covered with scribbled dialogue, scene descriptions, diagrams and outlines. Even when she did happen on a good idea she could never get beyond a couple of chapters before her critical, perfectionistic tendencies would rip the work to shreds.

She was thoroughly annoyed with herself. There was nothing worse than having hundreds of stories haunt her waking moments... except maybe the fact that her best ideas came from her non-waking moments. She scoffed at herself. She couldn't even consciously think of good ideas. They had to rescue her at night while she was slept.

But here was a story all set out before her. It had the makings of a best seller, she could tell. The development of plot and characters would be superb. The scenes would be detailed but not overdone. The slow crescendo of events would inevitably lead to a suspenseful fast paced climax. Then the few loose strings would be tied up and the reader would put the story down with a contented sigh.

She stared at the scene, thought for a moment, and then walked away.