I have many times sat down to write a fantastic short story or the great American novel with the “work of art” mentality that kills. Every stroke of the pen, every clack of the keyboard is met with ultimate frustration as you begin to measure yourself by the standards of Hemingway, Faulkner, O’Connor, et al. You realize that your genius is insignificant compared to the literary giants that inspire you. As the light of their blazing suns engulfs you, you realize that you are but a candle being jostled by the winds of self-consciousness: “Give up now, Stephen,” the wind says.