God of Art

He sat down at his desk and wrote, smiling and joking: The editor is so diligent, but he is practicing his writing and polishing his new work? I wonder how advanced my writing skills are now? The editor could only show embarrassment and hesitate several times. It was really difficult for him to boast, so he told me frankly that the writing was rough at the moment and was far from outstanding. When asked why, I felt helpless and depressed: firstly, my writing skills were shallow and my words were dry and dry, making it difficult to describe my myriad of emotions; secondly, my thoughts were surging, and the plots and characters in my mind were all clear, but my logical sorting could not keep up with the ideas in my mind, and my thoughts were chaotic and intertwined. My thoughts fall apart when they fall on paper. All kinds of wonderful ideas are ultimately trapped between the power of writing and ideas. I am full of thoughts and cannot express them all. I am full of ideas that cannot be smoothly formed. I have no enthusiasm for creation, but I am shackled by my own shortcomings. I am so powerless and depressed. It is really painful and unspeakable.