I wrote a thousand words every day

. . . each day mankind and the claims of mankind slipped farther from him. Deep in the forest a call was sounding, and as often as he heard this call, mysteriously thrilling and luring, he felt compelled to turn his back upon the fire and the beaten earth around it, and to plunge into the forest, and on and on, he knew not where or why; nor did he wonder where or why, the call sounding imperiously, deep in the forest.

He wastes his time over his writing, trying to accomplish what geniuses and rare men with college educations sometimes accomplish.

As though an invisible hand were writing upon it, words appeared on the smooth surface of the map. "Mr. Moony presents his compliments to Professor Snape, and begs him to keep his abnormally large nose out of other people's business."Snape froze. Harry stared, dumbstruck, at the message. But the map didn't stop there. More writing was appearing beneath the first."Mr. Prongs agrees with Mr. Moony, and would like to add that Professor Snape is an ugly git."It would have been funny if the situation hadn't been so serious. And there was more..."Mr. Padfoot would like to register his astonishment that an idiot like that ever became a professor."Harry closed his eyes in horror. When he'd opened them, the map had had its last word."Mr. Wormtail bids Professor Snape good day, and advises him to wash his hair, the slimeball."

Writing is finally about one thing: going into a room alone and doing it. Putting words on paper that have never been there in quite that way before. And although you are physically by yourself, the haunting Demon never leaves you, that Demon being the knowledge of your own terrible limitations, your hopeless inadequacy, the impossibility of ever getting it right. No matter how diamond-bright your ideas are dancing in your brain, on paper they are earthbound.

Omit needless words.