To write or not to write—that is the question:
Whether ‘tis writer in the mind to be blocked
With the continuous requests for the next chapter,
Or to do it another day,
And, by procrastinating, with complaints. To be unfollowed—
No more—and stopping to write we end,
The headache and the thousand ships
That author is heir to—‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To write, to blog—
To blog, perchance to dream. Ay, there’s the rub,
For in those hours of stress, what relief may come,
When I have logged out my blog,
Must give me pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of comments,
The pangs of OTPs, the browser’s delay,
The insolence of admins, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’ featured takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With logging out? Who would writers bear,
To think under a pressuring second life,
But that the dread of something after a chapter,
Of what plot points or twists to make
Some authors return, tempts of fanservice
And makes us rather bear those endings we have
Than see those other epilogues we know not of.
Thus the actual series does make writers of us all,
And thus the native hue of creativity
trying to balance with the pale cast of requests,
And writers of bad grammar, but great storyline
With imagination, exceeds the word limit
And to complete another chapter. Oh look!
A few words away! To finish this madness.
And to unleash my work to the world.