What most do not realize that no pull is greater than the urge to pen words on to a paper; for inspiration is a fickle thing. It comes at the most unfortunate time and sly that it is, if not penned down at that particular moment, it disappears and never comes back.
I have built empires and destroyed them in my mind; landscapes, buildings, nations, creatures, and what not has taken form in my mind and has then crumbled with time. This is how terrifying it is, so utterly scary that what you create is so simple, so easy to shatter. And even whence that particular figment of imagination has scampered away, it leaves behind a vestigial feeling of regret, that you failed to grasp the idea and put it into words. Not much is more haunting than the ghost of an old idea – always there to pester but never perceptible enough for you to get rid of it.
However, the vice versa is no less difficult. You pen down the words; but it doesn’t end there. You nitpick, you edit, you erase, you strike down. And even when it is out for the world to read, rather than triumph, dissatisfaction plagues you. For, being a writer means that you are never really satisfied with your work. There is always a better word out there that you could have used, some phrase that would have been more apt. And this rattling feeling of something just not being right always stays with you.