Once upon at time there was a person that wanted to be a writer and worked hard at it every day. First, she bought herself a pencil which she sharpened until its tip could pierce through the paper of her new notebook. At times she would pick up the pencil and set its tip to paper and scribble a few stray thoughts down until she sighed, feeling as if she were getting nowhere near her dream of becoming a published writer. Based on her mood she either felt like her writing was brilliant or worth nothing at all. Finally, she thought the only way to become an authentic writer was to imitate the styles of famous writers, even if it was completely untrue to her own style. Finally having finished a short story, she gave it to a friend, who happened to be a writer as well, to read. She paced and paced as her friend read her story. Her friend cleared his throat when he had finished, setting down the precious sheets on the table. Her heart leapt as she heard she friend say “this is quite interesting”, but was torn with grief when the next thing out of her friends’ mouth was “nothing original, but not bad”.