Marge worked at the Story Factory, in the Shoveling Department, where she worked all day shoveling terrible stories into the Terrible Story Furnace. She didn’t really write herself—well, maybe a little; maybe some journaling here and there, some false starts, but nothing polished. She wrote, but she didn’t write, anyway.
Until one day near the end of her shift, while Marge leaned pensively on her shovel, a pipe carrying exhaust fumes from the Language Generation Chamber (where the Creation Fire was stoked) sprang a sudden leak. She sighed deeply several times, breathing the fumes, and presently found herself with an Idea.