Entering the world of another language is a terribly frustrating experience. (Oh, such a ridiculous beginning, but it is how we, those with literary suicidal tendencies, are trying to find a way through other people's words.)
The verbal illusions of your mind are following completely parallel path with the weakness of your words. Before finishing a damn sentence part of a coherent expose in your mind you stumble upon paragraphs, prepositions, grammatical traps and mispellings. You spend your time checking on Google if your expression with an "on" or "to" is unanimously agreed. Through the translation from mental images - and illusions - to reality, you might lose the charm, the glamour, the beauty of your ideas. But you HAVE to be correct and more than perfect.
Sometimes you could be so happy for covering your ideas, that you miss some small corrections and the editor replies with a comprehensive package of advices to be follow if you want to be a good writer (In the worse-case scenario the feedback is reduced to a couple of words of friendly rejection). But I thought I was already one. Perhaps in another life, and in a different wording.
Anyway, the show should go on, no way back!
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