The man looked off into the distance at nothing in particular, his mind aimlessly winding through the different paths he would be required to take. He did not especially care for any of them, but neither were any so objectionable as to be avoided outright. He knew, or at least believed he did, that writing would one day become the career that he had so adroitly, though inadvertently, steered from on occasion throughout his life. “One day,” he realized, had been a long time ago. His past failures aside, the man wondered often of the path ahead, and questioned not his ability, but his willingness. He had seen much lesser men, whose writing and storytelling craft he considered poor to middling at best, obtain some level of acclaim in the field. In watching clowns and amateurs succeed, however, where he himself had dared not go, it made him question, indeed, who might the clown be after all.
wanderingfig 