The stallion sat at his desk late one night, the parchment in front of him illuminated only by the rapidly dwindling candlelight.
Heaps of crumpled-up balls of paper filled the floor around him, on each a different story, a different idea, a different character, a different stallion.
The stallion yawned and rubbed his eyes, wishing that he did not have to write this novel, but he knew he had to, as per his publisher’s demands.
And so, he stared at the blank paper, at a complete loss of how to begin his story, as he had been for most of the day.
He had written and scrapped so many ideas, that they all began to seep together, filling his mind with fragments of passages, openings, sentences, paragraphs, settings, characters, and a multitude of other things.
With a sigh, the stallion dipped his quill in the near-empty inkwell and put it to the paper for what seemed to be the umpteenth time that night and began to write once again.
“This is a story about a stallion…”