Overheard from another table at Wendy's
"You don't know enough to write a story like that, do you?" she said.
"No, I don't think so. That's what bothers me."
"But you want to do it anyway?"
"Yes. I think so."
"Well, research it then!" she said enthusiastically. "Get the background on it! Study! That's the only way left."
"Research won't tell me how people like that talk, though. It won't tell me how they think."
"It might."
"I can't imagine it," he said.
"Yeah, but that's why you research a subject—because you can't imagine it. Don't be lacking in imagination at both ends of your problem. It'll eat you alive. It'll keep you from ever writing."
"I guess you're right," he sighed.
"Now you don't know if you really want to be a writer or not, do you?" she sighed disgustedly.
"We're creators by permission, by grace as it were. No one creates alone, of and by himself. An artist is an instrument that registers something already existent, something which belongs to the whole world, and which, if he is an artist, he is compelled to give back to the world." — Henry Miller, Sexus
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Abandon hope, all ye who enter here! (At least put on your socks and pants.)