She sat down to write...

Looked around for a while wondering if she needs to find a muse, the way all-famous artists had. Did you notice, she wanted to be addressed as an artist, not a writer. She never wanted to limit herself in those six letters. She was ambitious.
She thought it over: having a muse would restrict her flow of thoughts. On second thoughts it would just give her a direction to move in. Anyway, she said to herself, it’s now or never. At least she had the guts to realise that she is a ‘nobody’ and would, for all she knows, remain so. Unless of course she gets married to a guy who sees through her plainness and sees the depth in her eyes and the potential of a path breaking /record breaking/ mind numbing awareness of the human psyche. Who will push her to get the best of her outside, for the world to realise what a gem it was that they were tossing around….
Aaaaaaaarrrrrrgggggghhhh!!!
No complex, never ending sentences Nina! Did she forget why her ex-boss yelled at her for her roundabout way of saying things? Didn’t her best friend often cut her short into saying things blandly, “I don’t need to know the exact shade of green lady, just tell me its green and I’ll get it!” Didn’t she?
Before I take you into the labyrinth of her mind I must tell you how she would like to be perceived as. She wants to be looked upon, as someone who knows her mind, when all she knows is she is not sure about the minutest thing under the sun.
She had not a fair clue of where she as going. All she knew was, she wanted to go places. Guess that’s what intimidated the opposite sex off her…the fact that she KNEW…she KNEW that she didn’t know things. She didn’t fear her lack of intelligence. If nothing, she had guts…and she knew! Some thought she was plain arrogant, some thought she was too ambitious, some thought she lived in a state of perpetual utopia, and some thought she was being juvenile. And she, what did she do? She ignored it all.
An acquaintance, that’s what he was. And one fine morning he calls her up and amidst a casual conversation tells her to write a small, which our lady later realised was quite a relative term, piece of literary gibberish. And this is what she wrote.