The Writer Who Never Wrote About The Things He'd Never Written.

There was a writer, a great writer, although he never wrote, because he didn't have time to. This is what he wrote about in his memoirs, or at least he would have, if he had found the time. You see, the writer was unfortunate in that every time he went to write he would have something more pressing to do. Like pressing clothes, pressing a button on a microwave and pressing people's patience.

The writer's creativity was a strange and complex thing. His imagination would create wonderful ideas, which he would then sit down to write. As soon as he did - another wonderful idea would enter his mind, meaning the other one seemed less important, meaning he returned to pressing.

The depressing nature of his natural inclination to press, rather than write, was repressed and oppressed, causing much stress, a complete mess. Often, he would be just about to write his masterpiece when he would get an unexpected call at the door. On days it didn't happen, he would call up friends and demand they call round unexpectedly. When they did, he would curse at the Gods for making him so busy.

The writer was a remarkable fellow in that he could never find the time to write but he could always find the time to Google the symptoms of his ever changing illnesses. And when truly frustrated by his inability to find time to write, he would shoot off a ten thousand word email to friends moaning about how busy he'd been. He couldn't understand why all the successful writers weren't busy, when he was extremely busy. He thought he got to the bottom of this when he got two extra shifts tending bar and two extra nights tending a hangover but unfortunately this failed to materialize in the written word.

Many nights he pondered over why he had never made it in the industry and why nobody had ever noticed the genius of his writing. For years, he struggled to figure it out. This struggling made him consider writing his first novel but he felt bitter about all the times the works he had never written had never been published. The bitterness grew and grew, until it was the size of a small goat which is actually quite big in terms of bitterness. The bitterness grew and he got angry towards all the publishers he'd never met and all the readers who had never enjoyed the work he had never written.

He finally decided to quit after many years of not achieving what he wanted with the books he'd never written.

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