No Stupid Questions
No such thing. Ask away!
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Once there was a man named Dylan.
Dylan wanted to become a writer. Oh, the tales he wished to weave! The worlds he could build! But there was a problem. He didn't quite know how to write. Now, though he was no dummy. He could use a pen and paper or type on a keyboard just like you and me, if not better! But the problem was stories don't write themselves. That takes practice and effort.
"How dreadful!" He thought. "But I have an idea! I'll ask friend Chad to write for me. He's a clever lad! He's read everything ever put to into writing so he'll know just what I'd like to do."
So the next time they met, he asked him. "Chad, I'm trying to write a story..." And he went on to describe the tale he sought. The world that seemed so vibrant in his head. Chad set to work and finally handed him a page. "Like this?"
It wasn't quite what he wanted. Not at all. It was rather bland, to be honest. Chad was smart all right, but he was no mind reader and maybe he was more inclined for cubicle work after all.
Chad apologized "I'm sorry Dylan, but if you ever find the type of story you're looking for I'd love to read it!"
So Dylan set off for home, dismayed. "How..." he thought. "How can I get these stories out? I still have never written a story in my days!" he wished for an easier way. Some way to unleash his thoughts...but there was only one.
He set to it. He sat down with a pad of paper and a keyboard and his favorite drink and he dared himself. "20 minutes. That's a start. I'll sit here and write for 20 minutes and we'll see."
The minutes goaned by and his brain seemed to creak and sputter. Like the dust of ages wearing off and tiny sprouts of beauty taking their place, but not blooming. Soon there it was.
And it was horrendous. It was like a stick figure. No, not even. A rough sketch of a stick figure. But it was his. And from then on, he wrote when he could or when inspiration struck. Sometimes when he thought inspiration would never be seen again but he sat down anyway out of spite.
He took notes when ideas did eventually sprang up, like that brilliant one on lunch break! He made characters and gave them life. One page turned to a few. Revisions were made, how foolish he was at first! He formed and shaped his world. Add a little, take some away. Again, again!
In time, his good time, he had it at last. A complete tale in full bloom! And it was beautiful, not because it was new or revolutionary or witty. But because it was his.
I'm actually non-binary, I use any pronouns, and I prefer gender-neutral and feminine terms. Seriously!
My apologies, in that case I should note this tale is a different Dylan that found themselves in a similar predicament.