Writing is a bad business. In fact, terrible in terms. The holy grail of thoughts, ideas; is filled with improbable doubts and retreat. The soul dripping art of labelling quintessential emotions with pampered text is all but a desperate act of reconciliation to feeling contented.
I myself am a documented case, if possible. I’ve spent a considerable chunk of time editing random drafts and processed write ups. Every time I try to put my head and write something, I always fail to bring myself to the exact words I conjured moments ago. Even, if I manage to tinker that grey part of brain and put it into text, it’s comes out as something else. In rarity, when the alignment of necromongerial universe is perfect and my literary craft shines with perfection, I still feel low. I judge my words and disregard them.
Writing in essence has this dramatic tendency to it. It doesn’t feel right while doing and when you don’t it makes you feel fraud.