He was a fiction writer. At least, he kept telling himself that, although as yet he had not produced anything that would impress even his doting girlfriend, let alone a discerning reader. He didn’t really even have any drafts of anything. He had a lot of ideas for stories, sprinted neatly on index cards and stacked in a little box on his desk. He had read — or at least purchased and carried about ostentatiously — a whole shelf of books on craft. What was he missing?
Aside from basic habits of actually writing, that is. He would occasionally notice this, and feel angsty about it for a bit. But it would only last as long as it took him to get to the book shop and find another great collection of tips to sooth and inspire him back to his accustomed heights of nothing.