The anatomical analysis of a creature I can use. Excellent. Into the sack you go. The ecological breakdown of a relevant climate? Perfect! Off the branches with you!
Things were going great until I stumbled into a clearing and found, sitting there right in the sparkling daylight, the glistening cover of a book. A novel, in fact. A novel about the very thing I had been journeying to write about.
Someone had already written my book.
I turned my head distrustingly and peered sideways at it. Then I cautiously reached down, lifted it to my chest, and I began to read.
The writing was good. Scratch that, the writing was GREAT. So great, in fact, that I felt the blood retreat from my skin, to cower in the deepest crevices of my flesh. I began to feel cold, apathetic, and thoroughly deflated.
What then, could I, an amateur writer, wish to add to the field of a published, successful novelist who has already tackled my plot, wrestled it the ground, and thrust a javelin-tipped flag into it as if to say "I came, I saw, and I conquered the hell out of it"?
I lightly shut the book and looked up. Before me stretched a path of surgical devasation through the forest, one that stretched to the horizon as if a bulldozer had run itself to the edge of the world and, finding nothing left to crush, hurled itself into oblivion.
Now I look at the machete in hand and wonder if I should even bother.
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