Who would choose this frustrating life of a writer? Who would choose to deal with the demons of self-doubt and uncertainty, daily? Surely it is a fools errand, but there are many who follow the call. Why? What lies on the other side of such misery?
There is hope there, hope that one day true work will be produced that can be looked back on as evidence that the sacrifices were not made in vain. To look at the completion of the product and know that all of the pain and misery was worth it. Beauty brought forth from toil.
And those of us who heed the call will jump right back in. For us there is no choice. For us there is only the life. Nothing else exists but the life of words.