Chuck Palahniuk’s novel Diary observes the plight of creativity:
We get on our art school treadmill, our graduate program for a master’s in fine arts, and practice, practice, practice. With all our excellent skills, we have nothing special to document.
As an undergrad student at U.Va., a bi-weekly deadline forced me to publish 31 “student life” columns. TL;DR: I wrote about feeling bad about myself compared to others, having terrible organizational skills/no idea what I was doing, and U.Va. changing me a lot. I also overused the phrase “manifested itself.” The rare good pieces in this ouvre are the ones where I had just happened to have something more interesting to talk about.
But at least I wrote. I chipped away at my 10,000 hours rather than just dreaming of being a writer, which is better than nothing.
I still write, nearly every day at that, but not for an audience and not about myself.