I have not, strangely enough, ever regarded myself as the hysterical, histrionic artist type. And I have always thought of that as a stereotype, not realizing that stereotypes do not exist in a vacuum. So imagine my chagrin to learn that I am that stereotype.
So here I sit, with some time to write, unable to write because I'm looking over the extant manuscript thinking about how bloody awful it is, feeling like every word I write is adding turds to an already too-high pile of them, and thinking that I should just give up this whole writing thing for good and all, because I'll never be any good at it, and it's never going to make me any money because no one is ever going to pay to read this horseshit.
Plus side: I don't really believe that; it's just how I feel. The histrionic artist side is balanced by a logical side that can see the fallacy and convince me to keep plugging away.
Ultimately, any artist has to be able to shake off the nagging doubt that he's a hack. He's got to have a certain amount of arrogance to combat it. No one's going to tell a nobody, "Hey, don't quit! Your stuff is good! Keep trying!" If you don't have that inside yourself, you'll give up and do other things.
Getting discouraged is part of the process, I guess. Knowing that doesn't make it any easier.
And, even so, managed to finish the "burn down the library" vignette, and ended up adding a total of about three pages to the story. Not bad for work done before breakfast.