See, I started a novel once. I’m an English major and would be remiss if I weren’t also an aspiring writer. Of course, it was right before the Great Hard Drive Malfunction (which resulted in the very strict Back-Up Reform Act).
The patient apple genius turned to me as a concerned comrade, said he could save the machine, but—he faltered in his diagnosis with an impeccably understanding bedside manner—the information would be lost. His sad eyes locked with mine, was there anything I would lose? I answered honestly, with regret: Yes, 14 pages of my novel and a short story about a dream I had. He cheered visibly.
In any case, there’s nothing the same note of depressing as being in a room filled with yearning authors, their unpublished novels hovering above their heads, lowering the ceiling as the air becomes thick with admiration, jealousy, and false hope.