Author's Note: I decided the best way to get over my insecurities about writing is to write using them as inspiration. By the way, it is the lack of response from readers that's making me insecure. It's not like my stories so badly written that after viewing for mere milliseconds you have rush to close the browser window before your eyes melt . . . wait, that just might be it! Wait, no! My psychologist talked to me about this. Reality is not my stories, reality is not my stories, reality is not my stories . . . (any similarity to real people is merely coincidence) . . . reality is not my stories, reality is not my stories . . .


Featherpen sat at his desk, staring intently at the line disappearing and reappearing on the screen of his laptop. He had opened a word document, hoping that inspiration would strike him suddenly. In the meantime, after an hour of staring at the computer, his eyes had dried out.

So he got up and shuffled into the bathroom to look for some Visine. And then he caught a glimpse of his reflection from the mirror on the medicine cabinet.

Mirrors should be outlawed, he thought darkly to himself.

His hair was unkempt, it was slightly greasy; and to be honest, his dark brown hair was styled in a disastrous haircut that he had anxiously been waiting for to grow out since he'd gotten it. And there was a cowlick sticking up in the back of his hair.

His skin looked sallow in the lighting. The lighting also highlighted the fact that Featherpen had not shaved in many days, and his facial attempt was so sparse that he looked like a man with a balding beard.

Below his eyebrows were gorgeous gray eyes. This attractive feature was completely overshadowed by the fact that his eyes were completely bloodshot.

He decided it was time to take a shower. Midway through washing his body for the second time (he really had waited too long to take a shower), inspiration struck.

He immediately leaped out of the shower, hurriedly turning the water off and drying his hands; and ran, naked, to his desk. He began furiously typing. This continued for several hours, and soon Featherpen was covered in dried soap film. Upon typing the final words, he gave a sigh of relief and added the new story to his profile on fiction press.

For the first time in a while, he violently became conscious of the horrible state he and his apartment were in. After cleaning for many hours, he took another shower, though this one went uninterrupted.

That is how Featherpen spent his precious few days of vacation.

Everyday he would anxiously look at the viewing stats for his profile. And even though hundreds of people were reading his story, he became very worried. There were no reviews. Day after day, he would come home from work and look, but his hopeful expression always left his face.

He contacted the administrators of fiction press, hoping it was some kind of mistake, a computer error; only to be informed that everything was in perfect working order on the site.

He felt so dejected that he began writing dark poems, but they too, were left without any reviews.

Featherpen decided it was time to stop being a writer. He could no longer handle the crushing disappointment that came from pointlessly hoping day after day that somebody would care enough to write a review for his work.