https://catapult.co/stories/writing-shop-talk-how-publishing-my-first-book-at-twenty-five-almost-ruined-me-for-life

In that moment, I had no compassion for writing is hard, even though I have made the same complaint countless times. I had no compassion because I could see in my friend what I couldn’t, in my ugliest moments of narcissistic self-loathing, see in myself: that neither of us had anything real obstructing the will to write. That there is no compelling reason to write except for love of writing: The money is bad, the moments of recognition come slowly and rarely, and neither are ever enough to live on. If their lack will destroy you, then you’re meant for something else. Nobody will hold their breath or a gun to your head for your sentences. And if the thing you wrote won’t sell, then all there is to do is write another. Writing is hard, yes. But if you want it, you want it.