Writing is a joy for me, but sometimes it can be an unmitigated pain in the ass. Some days I will write and write and write, then at the end of the day, read what has spewed forth from my fingers and say, “this is crap.”
I am right, too, 100% of the time. I know crap when I see it; my crap meter is skilled and effective.
My brain sometimes will not go “this is crap, yanno” before I waste an hour-and-a-half. It irks me.
My desire for publication is intense. Not because I want the money, not because I want the fame, but because I love the genre and I am a storyteller. I also want a filter in my head that goes “Ding! Don’t write that!” A “Ding!” that was backed by dollars, a “Ding!” of experience of having your agent and editor smack you around with your own manuscript.
“Hey look at me I can world build!“
“Oh, yeah, that wouldn’t really add to the story now, would it? Oooo look at this word, it’s shinny!“
“Fine. Ohhh, breasts!”
“Look, I’ll only write about breasts for a paragraph. 75, no 50 words, max.”
“Sigh. I suck.”