Fancy Writer

I have a friend who fancies himself a writer.

He begins every conversation with me excitedly describing some skeleton of a plot he has just conjured. Though sometimes mildly promising, his plots are consistently under-developed and rife with inconsistencies.

"But I've got a great title!" He grins spearmint and chapstick, eyes wide enough to swallow the world whole. I can seldom argue; "My Three-Legged Neighbors" or "Aboutface, Clockmaker!" seem as if they would portend hilariously imaginative plots or situations. The smiles I return to him are as encouraging as I can procure. I tell him that I absolutely can't wait to read it, though I've never actually read any of his stories.

It is only after he leaves that I acknowledge Envy perched on my shoulder, flapping his ragged wings. I used to be able to shrug it off; no longer. The earnest optimism is gone for me now. I know it takes more than a catchy title and a burst of adrenaline to craft a proper narrative. This awareness was my golden egg. But it's gotten dull, and it's a cold place to sit.