Dear Literary Ace (a.k.a. Snoopy), I see your struggle. I understand the pain of the blank page. While my false starts do not begin with dark and stormy nights, mine end up the same way: crumpled paper on the ground. I too know the rejection notice and the scorn of the neighborhood children with too large heads. I say: Write anyway.
Keep your hands on the type writer. So many children, with normal-sized heads, look forward to your stories every week. They love to wonder what happens on rainy nights: Do people fall in love? Do they steal jewels? Do they make Velveeta mac-n-cheese because it is delicious and easy to make? We want to know. No, we need to know.
Keep writing, Literary Ace. Keep writing because it keeps you sane. You are surrounded by boys who perpetually miss footballs and those who cling to blankets because philosophy requires comfort. Write to avoid sitting in front of a girl who dishes out psychiatric advice for a nickel (for that price, I cannot imagine that she is very good).
Write for us. We mere mortals who do not live in two-dimensional black and white (except for the technicolor grace of Sundays), but in the messy three-dimensional world defined by shades of gray, need you. You are a beacon and inspiration. You prove that it can be done. Anyone can write. You do not need special materials or a fancy home. Heck, you do not even need opposable thumbs. You just need a place to sit and a bit of peace and quiet. Which we know is sometimes the hardest thing to find: those darn birds keep chattering away and making noise.
Keep writing, Literary Ace. The world needs stormy stories.
With love and admiration,