What began with a question posed to myself became an analysis of what an author must suffer to believe what they have created is art.
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At the end of the day, not too long after enjoying sustenance for the evening, the author retires to their previous decision: to write. Not necessarily by hand or on paper, but through the same characters symbolizing the same thoughts and sounds which may be formed by hand. Was this activity mandatory? No, but the author has a sense of responsibility when a storyline has blossomed in their mind only for its pollen to seed countless other threads of ideas until a humble decoration isolated in the empty yet fertile field becomes an infestation of creativity. What began with a mere idea, the story of an individual and a simple event, quickly explodes into the character becoming more complex while others are born into the same world to expand the reality they live in.

What was the point of writing? Did these characters serve a purpose beyond their meaningless creation by the fingers of one whose mind is the only limit to what may exist within? Has the slain hero been lost in vain, to simply offer a treat to readers only for the author to enjoy its taste for themself? Is the unspecific gender of her/himself “themself” or “theirself”? Do the readers know the difference, are they going to question it? What if they question the world an author has created? What if a character defies the logic created in the world in the past? Does the author edit their content to hide their past mistake?

The cushioned chair appears comfortable but the weight of an author taking their throne every evening to resume. Every key on the rectangle stares back. What were they waiting for? They were about to fall prey to constant assault from several fingers, pressing them downward into their base only to withdraw and continue to their next victim. How could they tell each other apart? What if someone were to rearrange them while the author is away? Would they have already memorized the locations and be able to continue without even looking down, or has their experience been too limited to continue? How would they return the keys to normal without already knowing their locations, thus not needing to arrange them in their original placements?

Take a moment to breathe. The mind is capable of more things than anyone can isolate and identify alone. Will that be part of your story? Is an exploration of the mind important to the characters? What kind of characters do you have? A hero, a villain, and supporting roles. What would you describe the hero as? Are they male, female, or otherwise? Are they brutal, intelligent, or both? Is the hero old enough to fight their own battles or do they require outside assistance? What about the villain? Are they the corrupt royal, hiding on their throne behind an army of soldiers only for the hero to conquer on their aspiring path? Are the supporting roles nothing more than fodder for the hero and villain to waste time? Why have supporting roles if they only exist to be destroyed? It would be the same as raising a child only to slaughter them in their sleep, minus the violence and disgust which would haunt you forever. What if a character has experienced such trauma? What if the hero lost their parents to a traumatic event deviously created by the villain? How were the parents like in life, would they have been interesting characters? Why should anyone care about the parents if no one ever knew them? What if the parents had friends who lived on and relayed their experiences to the child hero? What if the child was never a hero, but merely a catalyst for another character to become so? Remember to breathe frequently. Though an author is seated an endless barrage of questions and tangents will lead a simple thought into the infinity of creativity which the mind allows to lay in slumber until disturbed. A disturbed giant. What if that were important to the story?

To begin an exploration of all the ideas barely held within the confines of your mind, all authors begin with a blank canvas. They may not share the same tools and motions, but an author is an artist of words. Their colors are mixed with what flows in sound. Their pencil, brush, pen or otherwise is only as broad or fine as they are capable of defining. There are no bounds to beauty when the medium lacks the visual form of art, but merely exists in the perspective of the reader. A critic of a painting, drawing, or sculpture may simply stare awkwardly until they come to their own conclusion, but the creations of an author may only be judged within the mind of an individual. All individuals share their mind with no one outside their own. To exist outside of your own mind means transcending the physical bounds of a single body, meaning existing outside conscious life.

Distractions are as infinite as your words may dance behind your eyes. Anything as simple as a nostalgic toy from countless years ago, or the thought of such an object, draws your attention away from the delicate web of thought and ideas woven into a dust consumed clump trapping the spider. But by the same token such objects may create inspiration, supplying thread to mend an incomplete patch.

Time is diminishing. The relaxed expression of the next day begins to raise the corners of its lips as midnight crawls ever closer. You feel as though nothing has been accomplished in spite of the thoughts which have infested your awareness for far too long. What would you do next? Is it time to begin? What should your introduction be? Should there be a preface to explain important information before the story begins? What do other authors do? Is it normal to write during the night? What if no one else does, isolating you as a loner? Do you care about being different? What if your tone is too aggressive and frightens readers away in the first few words? What if they instead lack strength and it comes off as weak? Would you have time to edit to please everyone before the world knows your writing is pathetic?

You have yet to begin. The fear of failure stands behind you, leaning over your shoulder, whispering criticisms of your thoughts before they flow through your fingers into the keys. Your characters are idiotic. This world is pointless. Their experiences and personalities are as tasteless as the blankets you long to dive into, to escape this maddening prison in front of the glowing screen as it illuminates your face and burns into your eyes to remind you of the importance of success.

Your mind trails off to find a distraction. Something to repel the shadows to your back. Music. Games. Other writings. The music is a reminder of the joyous daytime when the sun smiles down through your window into the prison an author surrenders to. The games test your patience and consume large amounts of precious time. All you have is the moon. Countless adaptations of the moon have gone from a simple idea to true beauty. Should that be important to your writing? Is the moon important? It illuminates the night, beckoning to the shadows to find shelter away from a struggling author with enough to deal with. The moon is merely an object. An object out of reach. An object beyond the reach of anyone alone. You realize these distractions are taking you away from your true objective.

The time reminds you to sleep. Tomorrow is a new day. Perhaps inspiration may come then.