Once there was a man called Dan. Well. Once there was a boy called Daniel, who everyone insisted on calling Dan, and who eventually gave in and accepted the moniker. But that’s (mostly) beside the point.

If you asked Dan what he liked, he would almost invariably reply, “books”, or perhaps, “reading”. Indeed he sometimes wondered if there was an important distinction between these two options, but was yet to satisfy himself with an answer. Perhaps he could do so if he really sat down and thought about it, but at this point in his life he had yet to make that commitment.

Dan liked books so much that he was in fact especially keen to write one. Part of this desire stemmed from his general love of literature, and the pleasure he imagined he’d get out of having a job in the one area of life that he enjoyed the most. Another part came from the idea that a book, once published, would be like a little employee, going out and making money for its boss, who could sit back and reap the rewards of his mental endeavours. There were other motivating factors; at this stage however they were too nebulous to put into words.

On the other hand, Dan foresaw two large obstacles:

  1. He felt himself to be incredibly uncreative, and baulked at the thought of coming up with enough interesting content to fill a whole book.
  2. He detested the idea of other people reading his work, having a particularly thin skin when it came to being critically analysed.

These seemed to Dan to be insurmountable obstacles; certainly larger obstacles than he was used to surmounting. He was a man who liked his comfort zone – it was just so comfortable, after all.

One day, however, he decided to write a brief, mostly-autobiographical work, and post it on his less-than-sporadically-updated blog, reasoning that every journey of a thousand miles began with a single step, or so he was pretty sure of having heard somebody once to have said. And so his journey began.

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