This

Almost every day, he puts pen to paper and scribbles some almost intelligible scrawl. These are the first manifestations of ideas that have come from his imagination.

His confidence had been shattered, and his belief in himself had been severely tested. Still, those scribbles coalesced into seeds of ideas, which could then be transferred into a coherent narrative via a computer keyboard.

The first letter that appeared on the screen was his first victory that day. It was absolutely tiny, but it was a step forward, towards something that would show others that he could win.

He saw letters and words like LEGO bricks; on their own, they seem insignificant, but when put together properly, they could become an impressive work of art.

When he first started, he was a teenager who dreamed of writing a book, then of getting a typewriter, and that eventually became a dream of owning a computer, so he could become a published author. However, it was just a dream.

But every day, the first touch of pen to paper confirmed his belief in himself, because now, the typewriter had come and gone, and he had the computer and all his tiny scribblings were stored in the cloud, immortalising him for as long as there was power for the internet, although he had copies on discs, tapes and paper.

Some days, he went into bookshops and wondered if his name would be on those shelves one day, but then thought that even if he was on one of those shelves, who would search him out? He would be one of the thousands there. He felt the same in his local library.

So when he got home, he scribbled once more, capturing ideas to share, and feeling better, because even if no one else saw it, he was creating something worthwhile.

His words were his LEGO bricks to build a work of art and ensure some form of digital immortality for him.

He thought of others who were challenged by everyday tasks, like getting out of bed, washing and cooking, and every one of those things became small wins or victories. Without them, then other essential things would not happen for them, and that was true of his tiny scribbles. Without them, he would not be able to create anything.

If anyone looked at how he started, they would not see anything of apparent significance, but every action was significant to him because it made him sure that he could do what he felt he needed to do.

One word would lead to another, and that would lead to another, and before long, there would be a sentence. Then the sentences would conglomerate and become paragraphs, and the paragraphs would unite to become an article or a chapter in a potential book.

Every word written by him, for him, is a small win because it opens the way to his creativity.

Sometimes those starting words would lead to listening to music, or reading a book, or watching TV, and in return, he would gain more inspiration.

Every day is a new journey for him. His art is his writing, and without that, he would succumb to the dark monsters of boredom and apathy. The small win of the first word or scribble keeps such demons at bay; they do not want him creating and sharing, because in turn that gives him joy and friendship.

He knows what is best for him, and he takes joy in those small wins because he knows they lead him down many paths to happiness.

Every day, he takes his pen, opens his notebook and scores his first small win.