I want to write a novel. Something commercially successful, so I can retire early and spend the rest of my days ranching emus and shooting at visiting cultists. Or something profound and literary that would make Dostoevsky weep with admiration, if he weren't a decomposing skeleton.
I have the time, the talent, the motivation. But two massive obstacles stand in the way of success.
First, a plot. Tough to get off the ground without one. (Henry James thought differently, but I can't stand anything by Henry James.) My latest brilliant idea is a virus that destroys all of humanity except for the monster children kept locked in closets. Their post-apocalyptic future is decidedly antisocial. The only problem: how they escape.
Second, a pseudonym. "Jim Anderson" is dull as tapwater and common as appendicitis.