Down by the bend of the willow-lined river, in a neat little burrow with a blue front door, lived Oliver Otter. Oliver’s waistcoat was always brushed, his whiskers were always straight, and his writing desk was lined up in perfect rows: pencils, papers, and a very serious bottle of ink.
Oliver liked everything just so. If a crumb fell from his toast, he brushed it away at once. If his drawing wobbled, he started again on a fresh, clean page. He had a hundred empty notebooks and not a single finished story or picture inside them.
This particular morning, as sunlight sprinkled across the river, Oliver sat at his desk, staring at a blank page, afraid to make the very first, possibly not-perfect mark.
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