Writing when you think you’re a writer is such a different beast in comparison to writing when you entertain no such idea. For non writers, the words spill out unmolested. Not so for those who believe they are destined for literary greatness.
Pity the sentences that fall from the author’s pithy pen, for they are sure to have been subjected to a scrutiny unbecoming to such innocent vessels.
In penitence, I shall write no more today.
(aside from the many pages of copy I am employed to produce of course)