I love to write. I have no imagination. It is hard to write without imagination.
I can write enough descriptive language to write creative nonfiction, given a subject. I don't.
I write book reviews. Book reviews are easy. Book reviewing makes me envious, especially when I read something like American Copper or The Great and Calamitous Tale of Johan Thoms.
Such a gift with words makes me envious, and yet more so the ability to imagine a tale. The first, I might, had I twenty-five more IQ points and a better education and decent research skills. The latter novel, another historical work, is beyond my admiration, drawn from a world event in a place most foreign, made real on the page in a story entirely believable.
Reviewing books makes me envious, humbles me, entrances me with the ability of a human mind.
Some books are like listening to Bach.