He was of the belief that to be truly great, you have to suffer from the pain of writer's block. He constantly daydreamed about being blocked, and romanticised about it endlessly. "I don't want to have all these ideas," he said, to a passer by, called Merv, who didn't expect to be a part of this story.
"Excuse me?" asked Merv.
"I have too many ideas. It's all flowing," said Abley.
"What are you talking about?"
"I want to have writer's block. I'm desperate to be fresh out of ideas."
"Have you thought about moving to Hollywood?" said Merv.
Abley mumbled something offensive and sauntered off towards home. He arrived and turned on his laptop. Much to his dismay, he was full of creativity. He instantly wrote 2000 words, and that was just to respond to Liz on Facebook. Then he worked on his novel. Eight hours later, the novel was complete and he'd written outlines for four new stories.
Abley was meeting Greg and Nancy for coffee. They were both writers who didn't take him seriously due to his unusual productivity. Abley was desperate to be more like them, more like a real writer. He looked for patterns. Greg had a beard - and so did Nancy. Maybe this was the key to creative death.
"What are you working on at the moment?" asked Greg.
"Nothing," replied Abley, who convinced no-one, probably because he was scribbling down the seventh chapter while talking. Nancy was deeply concerned about him. Without the huge struggle, and years of creative bankruptcy, how could Abley ever expect to be taken seriously?
Abley was desperate. He wrote six books on 'the hunt for writer's block', and they were all best-sellers. The depression was hitting hard. He stayed up nights, consumed with fear that he would never run out of ideas. How could he be more like his writing idols who had all suffered extreme bouts of creative nothingness?