He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.

You cannot produce work that is finer than the life behind it for very long. Anyone hoping to say honourable things has to be arranged honourably themselves, because the gap between the two shows up in the work eventually, no matter how skilfully it is hidden. The demand is not for perfection but for a life with some shape to it. What you are becomes the material everything else is made from.

Rather than trying to improve your output this week, look at the ordinary structure of your days. Fix the piece you would be embarrassed to have visible, and let the work follow.