writer-friends:
Do you ever go back and read something you wrote quite some time ago and think, "Damn. That was actually pretty good. Where did that come from?" And just have no idea where it came from because you can't imagine that line/scene/insight actually coming from you because it's more than you think you're capable of?
Or is that just me?
Or is that just me?

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And it's like you forgot that you wrote it? Enough time and distance passed, so it's a bit foreign to you now.
And of course, you feel stupider, like you've become less, as you look at that finished product and see how well it turned out, and you're overly aware of how hard it is for you to create something that good. It's as if you've forgotten the effort of past creations, so your past self makes it look effortless and brilliant while your present self feels the pressures of the moment that make creation so painful a process.
no subject