Writing is an affliction, a disease of the soul, a rewiring in the head, like Asperger’s or some other form of autism. Like masturbation, it’s an uncontrollable and compulsive urge. It’s an obsession, a need, a drive. It’s not fun, and rewarding, and entertaining. It’s like having a bad movie play in loop in your head, so that your thoughts are either obsessing on words, or obsessing that your words are crap. It’s tortuous and exhausting, and if you could expel it from your possessed soul like an unwanted demon and be happy and content on a salaried wage, most writers would probably, in their darkest moments, do that instead. But they write because they have to, because they feel, like Gloria Steinem, that “writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don’t feel like I should be doing anything else”.