But there is a breed that suffers from some kind of literary diarrhea that borders on mild insanity.
There was a guy who used to send me a thick envelope every week and it was a xeroxed account of everything he did and every thought he had. This was pre-internet and I don't remember his name or how he got my address, but the stuff came every week even after I asked him to stop sending it. I didn't stop getting it until I moved (the person who has the PO box now probably still gets them).
The first couple times he sent them it was really fascinating reading. The fact that someone was writing out their life as it happened. He was a human blog before blogs or twitter existed. But it very quickly became tedious and overbearing. And boring. When you're constantly typing you don't have much time to do anything interesting with your life.
You could say the same thing about Bukowski at a certain point, but at least he had a period of living to write about. Imagine if all of his work was about writing and being a writer. Yawn.