I, personally, find that when I pick at it, it gets infected.
Scabs are cool, tiny turtle-backs you can click a fingernail on, but slip that self-same nail under the edge, and peel it up, and look at all of that juicy goodness you let get covered up.
Wanna write about a thing? Go, read about a thing. Learn a thing. It ain't school, so skim. Cliff Notes. Don't get so caught up in the pursuit of the thing that you forget to draw back the bow and pin it to the ground, there, across the glen, steam and blood pouring in hot puffs out of its nostrils as its flanks heave.
Don't be afraid to kick your leg up and over, drop off of your horse, draw your huntsman's knife, and cut its beating heart out and bite a big, honoring chunk out of it.
P's and Q's? Fukkem. They'll mind themselves. You'll read it over later, wince, fix, and move on. Or not. Nobody died. I like the wife to read a thing I've written. She reads Amy Tan. I do not. Do you see the lesson?
If you don't, knit. Needlepoint. Take up the bassoon. Or write. Just write.
The wife reads a thing, she laughs, she cries, or she gags, and I note the points where my perception collides with hers. She is not a co-writer, she is audience.
If someone you respect and enjoy, tells you you suck, you likely don't, unless they tell you in private. Then, listen. Or don't. The others?
Fukkem. Go, see their own words, if they have a place of their own. Likely dry bones. Wretched screed. See something you like? Steal like a motherfucker. Oh, not the words, but the essence.
Grind it up into a dark pot, and cut your wrist and put some of your own blood in it, then pour in some accelerant, set it afire, and inhale the smoke. Take a pen nib and scratch your flesh, then suck up the essence from the bottom of the smoking censer into it and tattoo it onto and into your skin like a Celtic Shaman.
Or waste a bunch of money going to school to have dessicated mummies tell you to have all of the letters line up just so...
Sometimes, you just gotta go down the rabbit hole...