The would-be writer pour himself some coffee and laced it with the condiments of his choice. He stood, gazing out the front window onto the street. The neighbor's son, who had just been accepted to a very prestigious college was shooting hoops. Amazing, the kids dad was a janitor at the high school.
Across the street, Ben Murphy was backing his white van out of his driveway. Lucky guy, he'd mowed lawns as a kid, now owned his own lawn and tree service. An there, in the house next to Ben's, old Mrs. Benson was picking up her morning paper. She had piloted an aircraft in the Korean war, when the pilot had became incapacitated.
The would-be author carried the cooling coffee back into his den. Sitting down on his swivel chair, in front of his computer, he stared at the blinking cursor. "My God," he said aloud, "Why can't I think of anything to write about."