Dear Wal,
You're deep in the heart of the thick of the jungle, prey to the plot that stalks you through the oversized, lush leaves and thick, roping vines. All you have is pen, paper and the fiery sword of your willpower against this creature that chases you. You make your way through the huge trees, swatting away the annoying sting of detail mosquitoes, infected with depression that could sweep down on you any moment. Editor spiders crawl onto your precious cargo of story, unknowing you keep going while they rearrange your brilliant (or not so brilliant) scenes and sentences and favorite quotes. You'll get to them too late, to find your story ensnared in there terrible web of false perfection and have to pull off the heavy cobwebs with your bare hands, braving the spider's bit for the sake of your characters.
Your characters? They follow you through the maze of trees, ghosting in and out of depth and personality. One comes up and slaps you in the face, shouting "Why am I here? What have you done? You idiot!" and stomps off. The fire of your will dampens a little, waning, as you cut through the tangled vines of subplots gone wrong. You here the growling of your plot behind you, and you start to sprint; afraid that the sunlight streaming through the thick canopy will desert you, taking with it your inspiration, and leaving you at the mercy of your plot. The plot draws closer, reminding you of completion, always threatening a life of being haunted by its ghost if you fail. You cannot fail. Your life, your sanity, depends on it.
And you wonder why most artists and writers are completely insane.
/endrant
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