Of course, I have an idea for a novel. It has been swimming in my head for some time now. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to writing it. Sometimes, I think the idea so magnificent, so original, so dazzling, and almost (dare I) comparable to those other great novels which I have read. And so, if I had only willed myself to begin writing, then to finish the novel and have it published, it shall receive quite a huge sum of attention and praise, and shall be placed on the topmost shelf of the literary cabinet, alongside the greatest books; it will be studied by students and academics, and they will live in my shadow just as I now live in the shadows of the greats. Do you understand, reader, the immense, the intense rapture and fulfillment that comes from knowing that one has emerged from the shadows to become for oneself a monument of admiration?

But other times, I think my idea indelibly stupid, and I lose all the mood to write.


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