Hmm.. sounds like me and my writing*! (emphasis mine)

"Alas, Fausta had told the truth: everything was left exactly as it had been on the day I went away. One seemed to be poking one's nose into the study of one of those long-dead writers whose rooms have been transformed into museums, which are visited by people reverently and hat in hand. Except that there was a difference: those writers whose rooms have been transformed into museums were for the most part real, genuine writers; or were, in their lifetime, sublimated artists of the first water, and their studies are faithful mirrors of their sublimation. I, on the contrary, am desublimated, and my study was clearly a museum of mediocrity, of approximation, of self-didactism, of foolish aspirations, of the near miss, of amateurishness." - from The Two of Us, by Albert Moravia
* Actually, the tragedy is that I have not even taken the time to write much and so do not even know if it is mediocre and desublimated or something worth reading! Foolish aspirations or "Khayali pulao", as a friend would call it!

And so it goes...