Your Stalker

I read your work in silence, quietly admiring your work of art.  I grumble to myself about my inadequate abilities as a writer and how I wished I was more like you.  I sit disturbed, wondering if I should contact you.  What would I say to you?  How do I begin?  Ive always kept to myself, so why now?

I'm obsessed with the new ideas that float in and out of my head, unable to commit myself to just one.  I bite my nails in frustration, it shouldn't be this hard.  If there was a god, why would he give me something I'm so passionate about, but yet not give me the skills to accomplish my dream?

I read another entry you've written, this one is really good.  The effortless wit and vocabulary in this piece astounds me and I sit green with envy.  I fantasize about becoming your friend; emailing each other chapters we've written and chatting eagerly about our favorite authors. 

I sit at the table with my pen in hand, but not one word drops unto the empty page.  I cringe as I remember what great characters you've created and I wonder if I should just give up my dream; how will I ever compare?
I force myself to write a couple pages, even though my dialogue is cheesy and my descriptions forced.

I will keep working, fanatically, until you notice me, until I become worthy of being your friend.