One of the problems with being a writer who doesn't write is that the stories are still there, the tales still want to be told.
They don't stop coming at you: the scenes that appear fully-formed in your mind, the conversations, the plots.
And the characters all trying to get your attention, though they don't fight each other oblivious as they are to the other. They cry out for your attention anyway, each in their own way, reflecting their individual personality - loud, insistent, quiet or extravagant - as they vie for your love.
Yet, I ignore them anyway. At least, as much as I can. It's just another demonstration of the cruelty of the author. Some dream up complicated murder scenarios in exotic far-away lands. I deny my characters their very existence.
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