Once upon a time (because that’s how a good old-fashioned fairy tale ought to begin) there was a storyteller, her thoughts filled with dreams, who sought to weave mythical spells with her writing. Angels and bright magical crystals gleamed in sunlit corners of imaginary tiled courtyards with lovely red rose-bedecked lattices, almost (but not quite) close enough to touch.

Though our heroine ventured bravely forth in her quest to bring these delightful wonders to life on the page, she always encountered obstacles in her path (as one might expect, of course, in a fairy-tale quest). The balmy summer breezes proved just too inviting after a long, bitterly cold winter. The garden beckoned, urging her to spend more time with its fragrant heaps of flowers and its overgrown bushes in need of trimming (to be honest, she’d neglected them longer than she cared to admit). Picnics and other outdoor activities filled her calendar. The Fourth of July fireworks came and went. Our guilty heroine realized she hadn’t written any stories in months.

“This just won’t do,” she told herself reproachfully. “My characters are depending on me to bring them to life!”

So she took a pen and paper (as she was an old-fashioned storyteller) and sat down to compose a story on a gloriously sunny Wednesday afternoon. She had plenty of ideas for fanciful tales she wanted to write. But she just couldn’t manage to get them down on the paper—when she tried, all that came to mind was how few clouds there were in the gorgeous blue sky, how lovely the birds sounded singing outside the window, and how much she’d really rather be outside too.

“Well,” she finally said, posting these meager paragraphs on her blog later that evening, “it’s a start, anyway.”

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