He often wished that he could be a writer; a real writer, who wrote for the pleasure of writing; who didn't care if he was ever popular, or if his mother or father were proud of his prose. Real writers wrote because they must, because to stop writing would be the same as to stop eating. But he was not a writer. He often picked up a pen and stared at a blank piece of paper. Sometimes he would write a few lines, but he would always scratch them out, and finally give up, and go watch TV.