Once upon a time, there was a great writer, thought the greatest in all the galaxy. Some said he was the son of a Muse. His works were great and intricate and were admired by all literary critics. But one day he found he simply could not write. He went to a hermit who dwelt in a cave nearby and told him, “My pen is stopped. I cannot write, for it seems that whatever I write, the critics tear into it like vultures. I feel the pressure to write some great work of art, and I cannot write, for whatever I write is not yet great. I have mastered technique and it bores me.” The hermit gave him a pen and said “write a story in a minute.” As he was the son of the Muse, he wrote at superhuman speed. Unmidnful of themes and structure and critics, and of the expectation, taking joy in the act of writing and of telling a story, he wrote a work of great beauty and power. Many would consider it the best thing he ever wrote. Unfortunately, I am not that writer and this story is rubbish.

(It took 3 minutes, sadly)