Let me tell you what the problem is.
Something happens from brain to pen to pad--something stupidly dumbing, muddling--probably the something that explains where the millions of bobby pins I have bought in my life have gone to. Probably, it's the same bobby-pin sucking vortex that also saps the awesomeness out of my writing--all my fresh, chipper ideas are laying in some mysterious place, the same place populated by all those bobby guys.
I feel like I'm looking at the pretty little petals fallen from the cherry blossom trees. I see their beauty, and stop to stare. But someone, or something, is covering the tree. My thoughts float and flicker across my mind screen, and my pen is too slow to write them. Like fireflies. Plus I hate the way my handwriting looks when I get fast. I hate all things sloppy. That's why I'm not fond of this vacuum that keeps on extracting the glue for my words--see, I never finish writing about the same thing I picked up my pen for first.
Maybe it's because I want to write and to capture, but moreso I want to fill a space that I don't currently occupy. I want to have processed all that I don't quite comprehend, not be processing, in the process of processing. I'm tired of those little petals--I want to scale the tree and tell you about the new view. A pair of new eyes is what I require; eyes, I suppose, devoid of vortexes.
And you know what, sometimes I'm downright scared. Because this is the world wide web, sweetheart, and I require instant perfection. This is serious bidniss.
I don't want to hear any bull about mistakes being beautiful or character-adding, NO. That doesn't work with writing. Writing mistakes are ugly. They poison the whole thing and make it bad.
Hey, don't get yourself in a wad: I'm just telling you what the problem is.