Start

A small room. A tall man with dark hair and light stubble enters. He places his mug of coffee on his clutter-free mahogany desk and sits down. Morning sunlight streams in the single, yet large window. He takes out a pen and some paper from one of the drawers.
He wants to begin his first novel; a novel that will rip the critics' minds to shreds and leave the masses of readers in awe. But he has no idea of what he is going to write. No plot, no characters and no setting.
So, instead, he writes his autobiography; his life story from as far back as he can remember. After not too long he reaches the part where he begins to write his novel, and he stops.
He sits still in his dark blue swivel chair. There is no cracking of his weight on the seat, no scratching of pen on paper, only the sound of a single bird outside chirping in the midday heat.
The man realises, the final chapter is far away. Quickly he rips up the autobiography and throws it into the wastebin. He returns to the novel. He returns to his ideas. He returns to his thoughts.