I’ve never written anything decent ever, and never will

but goddamn if the urge ain’t there. Here for safekeeping.

***

A famous writer drifts from day to day in a state of comfortable, happy yet somehow unsatisfying existence. Her novels, both critically and commercially successful, deal with this similar theme of discord and not belonging in day to day existence. The author would describe herself as a piece of origami, thin paper pressed into shape by knowledgeable hands.

Author is pursued by her Doppleganger; A woman who is her, exactly. Here paranoia mounts but it is eventually revealed that this woman is her. Unsatisfied by her dull, worthless existence, the woman who is not an Author reaches back and touches her past to become a writer like she’s always wanted.

This story is cliche bullshit unfortunately. What did I say to begin this post?