He sat down to write his epic novel but less than a page in he was struck with this disconcerting truth: he couldn’t write human interactions or dialogue or anything resembling traditional story elements. What he could write devolved into nigh-solipsism, deeply existential stories about the inside of man and his struggles, dreams, and thoughts. Apparently even in the lonely realm of writing, his pervasive introversion was inescapable. He sighed, rested his forehead on his hands, elbows on the desk, and thought. How was he ever going to become a great writer, or at least a decent one - escaping the drudgery of working for a living - if he couldn’t write more than one character? He’d heard about great novels that were about one character, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever read one of those and he assumed they still involved interactions, even if minimal, with other characters. And so he sat worrying, flummoxed as to how to solve this crisis.

When he finally came upon the answer, the obvious, quiet brilliance of it stunned even himself. Though he had a couple ideas about how to solve this problem, the best one, certainly, would be to ignore this gaping inability in this craft. He would write his stories about only the main character. His books would truly be stories about one person!

The subtlety of this hope caught him off guard. He had expected it to march through the streets of London with fanfare reminiscent of the troops return from the Second World War, but it was far more like a transient walking unnoticed through LA’s Skid Row. He smiled the first deep, clean smile he had in months, eyes glistening. He packed his favorite pipe with his favorite tobacco, stepped out of his century old house and started walking down streets lined with trees. The sun shone through the clouds and dappled the sidewalk with light amidst the shadows of the leaves and the pools of water from the early afternoon thunderstorm. The air was fresh, wet, filled with the beautiful aroma of budding trees whose fragrance the rain caught.

He slowly puffed his pipe, the smoke intricately swirling in the still air. He meandered downtown, walking aimlessly, perfectly satisfied. He smiled again. He would be a great writer.