A few words off-topic.
I've been writing novels for three years now, drifting across several platforms.
Three months after entering the industry, I'd already achieved a little success.
And I'd already begun gathering my first batch of readers. The name Wang Xin became known to more and more people. I truly once believed I could barely count as a semi-talented writer. The first book I wrote after entering the industry was the worst-performing book I'd ever had, yet its results had almost always risen steadily.
I once wrote an opening in just two hours.
Yes.
Two hours.
I could write four or five openings a day. Every one had something worth reading, and I was fairly satisfied with all of them. At most, I could update three books at once, each with a different plot, and all three achieved pretty decent results.
For several of my books, I didn't even decide what genre they were until more than ten chapters in. I simply picked up the pen and wrote; the genre, cheat abilities, plot direction, and so on were all figured out afterward.
But.
Recently, in preparation for starting a new book, I wrote more than twenty versions. My draft box backstage was nearly piled full, yet I still couldn't write an opening that satisfied me enough. Suddenly, the fearful helplessness of "running out of talent" seemed to shroud me, leaving me especially anxious and helpless.
The reason for this was actually very simple: "I understood a little too much," and "my output had exceeded my input."
Before, I had no idea how to write novels at all. I just wrote whatever felt fun.
Now that I understood more and had more things to consider, writing gradually became harder instead. It felt like a middle-aged man changing eighteen positions in