I used to think writing came easy. Now, not so much. For an eleven year old it is easy, but you grow older, you see more, think more, you know more. It becomes an ultimatum. What else can I write about? What is there I haven't written about? How much is there left to write about? It begins to occupy your state of mind, in a way. It can essentially drive a person mad. Not just any person, per say, but usually authors or broken beings trying to convey their thoughts and feelings into words. And when the day comes that it seems as though one will never write again, everything feels dead. Seeing as that was one of the few things left keeping such said person sane and alive, that person begins to feel desperately around for something, anything, to hold on to in place. It will likely be that they find nothing and wonder how much longer they can hold on at all.
But that's just my view on it, why listen to me?