I think of all the greatness that will never be, because the urge to create is so easily satisfied. A thought at the kitchen sink can be hastily reworded into a funny quip and crossposted onto the timeline, half-baked, incomplete, a good laugh, and then it’s gone.
All the Buckowskis of the world never to be born fully formed with fire and intensity. All the Kerouacs sated and deflated, long before they can craft an idea into a journey.
I write less, because I blather more.
We need time to mull over ideas, give them flesh, pass them along to the other puppeteers in the chain, get them onboard. Then we make dragons.