To them, imagination seems to be this separate faculty in the mind that just spews out ideas. The real mystery is talent. All writers have those days when it feels like you're clearing away stuff to get at what's there. Auden described writing as scraping away on a dusty stone to see what the inscription is. At root you are a satirist.
Satire depends on comic exaggeration, and on stereotyping.
I took this on the chin. I don't believe in the whole idea of character, psychological realism. I see it as dying with the nineteenth-century novel. I'm a habitual, but timorous, user of drugs. It's good for making notes, but not for the executive side of it.