"Oh, God," he whispered, staring at a blinking cursor. For the first time in two decades, he had nothing to say. The prompt on the screen was simple: Develop a story.
He set the recorder down on the railing and walked out his front door, leaving the blinking cursor behind. He didn't know where he was going, and for the first time in twenty years, he didn't care who was watching. Oh, God!
Arthur looked at his recorder, then at the city. He realized he didn't need to invent a world; he just needed to step into the one that was already happening. "Oh, God," he whispered, staring at a blinking cursor
