This piece kinda sums it up for me.

The Writers Anguish


Why do it to ourselves?
The endless hours we sit
staring at that blinking curser on the screen,
willing it to move,
for we have nothing in our heads to cause it to do so.
We walk away disgusted.

Then, finally, when we hit upon a thought,
a notion, or phrase which takes our fancy,
we write.
Endless words, flowing into sentences,
then paragraphs, then pages.
Our creative juices pouring out from the deep well of creativity
we pray will never run dry.

Exhausted of energy
we read our great masterpiece
only to discover to our dismay it is crap.
All of it,
nothing but endless babble and absurd ramblings.
We cry, we scream
threaten to destroy.
Threaten to never attempt to put pen to paper again.
We walk away disgusted.

But we try again.
The need to write a lure
overcoming all disappointment.
Then a ray of hope.
Something different here.
Something which has a possibility of becoming a great work.
We press on work on, cry and laugh.
But then it is done.
We sigh it is finished.

Why do we do it to ourselves?
We are writers.