To write or not to write. That is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The frying pans and frozen turkey legs of that outrageous muse of mine
Or take up pencil or keyboard at her urgings,
And by submission end them. To write, to create,
No more; and by creation to say we end
The headache of the thousand frying pans
That muses hold—‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To write, to make;
To think, perchance to dream. Ay, there’s the rub,
For in that trance of writing what wonders we shall behold,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of waking life,
For who would test the whips and scorns of time,
The editor’s pen, the critic’s contumely,
The pangs of publishment, of its delay,
The insolence of readers and the spurns
That patient merit of writer’s minds and hands takes
When we might silence it all
With an AU*? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under weary deadlines,
But that the dread of something within that trance,
Our country explorèd, so we thought, until came
An unexpected turning of plot or character, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others we know naught of?
Thus cognition makes us cowards all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied over with pale cast of mediocrity,
And enterprises of great pitch and lasting
With this regard their currents turn away
And lose themselves to the Void.
*AU: Alternate Universe
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