They say that all you need to become a great writer is a healthy imagination and a way with words. I believe that this idea is both true and false, in equal measures. I don’t dispute that imagination is needed; if writers such as Douglas Adams and J K Rowling had lacked considerably in that department then the world would be a far less amusing and entertaining place to live. There would also be a great shortage of literature and other media, and who knows what else all that money would be spent on…probably something trivial in comparison, such as world peace. That was a joke by the way, for all of those fools out there that take the literal meaning of the written down word.

Now where was I? Oh yes, right back at that opening sentence. I don’t know about you, but I think that was quite a marvellous sentence. I can’t stand it when work opens with speech, I prefer thoughts. Thoughts are quiet and calming, and ease you slowly and carefully into the mind of the writer. Not that I want you in my mind of course; that would be far too disturbing…both for you and for me.

Anyway, as I was saying, I have no reason to argue with that point that imagination and understanding of language can make a great writer. After all, the Bronte sisters didn’t get to become famous by sitting at their computers all day long playing games such as Age of Empires or Spider Solitaire. Not that they would have had those games, or even such ‘advanced’ technology as a computer. Now look what you have done; you have yet again let me stray from the path and amble on until my point seems quite pointless.

I can just picture them now; running around the streets of Haworth, ideas popping into their heads at every turn. They must have bee fit and healthy young girls too. I can assure you that the main street of Haworth is not a place you would want to continuously travel; it’s as steep as the white cliffs of Dover. Well almost anyway.

What I'm trying to say, in a longwinded lets-avoid-the-whole-point-of-this-beginning kind of way, is that you need more than just those two qualities to be able to write successfully. You need to be able to absorb ideas as well as excrete them on to paper. Your mind needs to be open. Open to what though? You don’t want to be assimilating a load of racist remarks or terrorist tendencies. No, no, that would not do at all. What I’m talking about are tales, yarns, chronicles, legends.

A story chooses its novelist.

What do you think about that then eh? I firmly, resolutely, confidently, completely, unfalteringly believe that a tale chooses its author a script chooses its playwright; a sonnet chooses its poet. They have been around since the beginning of time, becoming more and more wild and mysterious. Parental ideas and fantasies giving birth to more modern perceptions, which in turn create their own offspring.

Fiction creates the past, present, and future of the old we know and belong to. It generates a charming, fairy-like tinge to sprinkle over past bloody battles and humdrum happenings. It adds tears and laughter, empathy and covetousness, to everyday life. It inspires future generations of abnormally intelligent beings to invent gadgets and contraptions with which to spoil and eradicate what is left of the beauty of this planet, so as to give us a better quality of life.

See, that’s where most people go wrong. They spend so much time looking for the perfect beginning, middle, and end, that they miss them altogether. You can’t just pluck a story out of thin air…it has to be something you were born to write, otherwise it just won’t work. Different people become open to acquisition in different ways, but it usually comes down to emotion. Whether it is the obtaining of a muse, reminiscence, or travelling through the country by horse and carriage and admiring the beauty of nature, it all comes down to emotion. Anger; passion; happiness; disgust; hate; depression; love. Strong emotion exposes our minds to out surroundings, and elicits the activity of our souls.

According to the rule books, I have already constructed an unsuitable beginning. After all, I have not yet introduced a single character have I? So, for all of you rule-abiders, I shall appease by starting again, and laying the foundations of this text brick by brick.

My name is Clo, and I am both the author and the main character. This manuscript is written by me and about me. Egotistic I hope not. You see, the thing is I have writers block. Oh yes, I can let loose a load of waffle. I can digress, I can stray, I can go off at a tangent. I can wrap myself wholly in letters, in punctuation, in rhyming couplets, in prose. I can lose myself completely in the language that I forget entirely the point I was attempting to make to begin with. That does not mean, however, that I have any idea of what to write to begin with.

I set myself a task you understand. A task which I am now finding impossible to commence let alone complete. This therefore proves that imagination and the ability to sculpt half decent phrases are not enough to write a perfect story.

Consider the situation. A newly formed woman in turmoil, trying to find the best way to profess her love to her significant other. How cheesy, you are probably thinking, how corny. But that is just the way I am. I find more comfort in the written rather than the spoken word, just the same as believing that old saying ‘actions speak louder than words’. So why not mix the two?

I like to lose myself inside fiction; I find it far outshines the reality of life. Maybe that makes me crazy and naïve, a pitiable daydreamer with no control over her schoolgirl wants. Or perhaps it just means that I prefer to see life how it should be, rather than how it is. Losing myself in a Jane Austen novel, imagining the pleasure and gaiety derived from such simple activities, such as an outing to Bath or the knowledge that as a woman I would be protected rather than abused. Is there something to wrong in that? I truly hope not.

I could write a romance; that would be the paramount thing to do, would it not. A modern Romeo and Juliet: two star-crossed lovers. Although I would have to change the ending of course…it wouldn’t be much of an act of love if I killed us both off at the end would it? The trouble is, those sorts of happy-go-lucky, fairy-tale ending stories don’t come easily to me. In fact, they seem to avoid me altogether. I am not meant to write clichéd, Disney-style tales, and that suits me just fine. Besides, there are plenty of romance and saga enthusiasts out there so I won’t exactly be missed.

How exactly can you form a feeling into words though? Into something physical and precise? The dictionary definition states that love is “an intense feeling of deep affection. A deep romantic or sexual attachment to someone”. And yet, you look up words such as affection or attachment, and they define them with yet more feelings. But is that all love really is? If you have ever experienced it yourself, then you will know that there are parts of it that are impossible to put into words. It’s a lot like trying to translate a phrase from one language to another…never will it have the exact same meaning.

So maybe, maybe this itself is proof of my love and devotion. Love has inspired me to graffiti this paper with swirls and dashes of ink, forming my thoughts into black patterns that may make sense to the trained eye. Maybe this itself is the story. Who ever said that a story must move from one place to the next, taking the characters through different ages, different countries, different situations? Maybe this is just one of the many chapters of the story of my mind. A story of purpose and meaning; of proof and opinion.

A story for him.