If I could just don my coarse grey overcoat and saunter down to the forest. Where the wind whistles through the trees, cracking branches together. If I could grasp a low lying branch with calloused hands and pluck a bestseller from the bough.
If I could just stroll into the corner store and buy a can of characters, a raw breast of plot and some setting wraps. Then go home and start the oven. Warming myself and watching as it cooks.
If I could sit in the shade, making a daisy chain of events. Letting nature grow me more as I need them.
Where's the fun in that?