I am irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true, but whose fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within.
-Gustave Flaubert
Most days, I can truly relate to this quote. The only purity (or illusion of purity) an idea ever attains is in the writer's mind. Once she begins committing it to paper, the possibility of perfection becomes nonexistent.
When we write, we're trying to bring down the moon with mere arrows. We may never reach our quarry, but the attempt's a noble effort.
Besides, no one else can read the illusions of perfection we keep locked up in our heads. If we don't at least try to get them down on paper, we're doomed to end up like this poor fellow from my favorite (rude) e-card site, someecards.com (if you click through, prepare to be offended. And amused, most likely).
