Writers are never satisfied with their work. We’re the hardiest person to please, even if it’s ourselves that we’re trying to placate. Left to our own devices we’d never have anything for anyone to read because we’d never be 100 percent truly satisfied and happy with what we’ve written. We can always find a thread to pick at and pick at until finally we pick at the wrong thread and it all comes unravelling and we end up spiralling into hopelessness and despair, vowing to never write again or at least until the next thing invades our mind and won’t let us go until we write it down. And then the cycle repeats.