Scene.

WRITER: I'm so fed up and cheesed off and things. The world seems full of people who are both younger and more accomplished than I. Why do you, Fragile Grasp On Reality, and you, Twisted Self-Indulgent Resentment, think that is?

F.G.O.R.: Those people had more initial talent then you, and they've worked harder. They also have something resembling focus. And they don't keep dithering over finishing stuff and punting out stuff they have finished. Oh! And when they do find themselves on a roll they don't shoot themselves in the foot by downing tools and playing Icewind Dale. They want to polish stuff off and show it to the world; you want to crook your arm around your paper and lean over it and mutter "not finished yet!" until everyone gives up and goes away. You continually punch below your weight because deep down you're terrified that you're not really that good.

T. S. I. R.: Those people had more luck than you. They had more support from those around them in their formative years, better teaching, better advice, and a magic draw with an unlimited supply of those nice pencils that you like-- y'know, the green ones? Nothing that's happened is your fault. If you'd had all their advantages, you'd be as good as them. Better, in fact.

WRITER (schnoogling up to T.S.I.R. like a rhesus monkey clinging to its fake cloth mum): I wuv you, Twisted Self-Indulgent Resentment. Don't ever weave me.

T.S.I.R.: Of course not, sweetie. I'll stay forever and make everything all right.

F.G.O.R.: I'm going out to shoot myself. It's urgent.

WRITER: 'Bye then.