The autobiography of Winston Shoehorn

Perched in his garret, Winston Shoehorn, waiting for inspiration, Winston Shoehorn, tried to think of a word, just one word to get the ball rolling, open the flood gates through which the creative juices would endlessly flow. But … Winston Shoehorn couldn’t think of a word, not one, not even a letter that might eventually give birth to the formation of a word. “I’m fucked,” he said to himself, trying not to sound defeatist. “I can’t think of a single bloody word, there’s nothing else for it.” He put down his pen (a nice ballpoint - perfect for writing, containing as it does an internal reservoir of ink, which is dispensed via the point of the ball when the ball starts to roll), stood up from his desk and flung himself out of a nearby window, in the mistaken belief that he, Winston Shoehorn, would only realistically achieve the recognition that he, Winston Shoehorn, felt he deserved after, as in not before, his death. Winston Shoehorn died instantaneously upon impact, leaving behind as his literary legacy, the only evidence that he had ever entertained artistic ambitions, however modest or misguided; the one longwinded and rather clunky autobiographical paragraph that you, the reader, have just read.