Now there's a dream, the life of the author, sitting around with pen in hand, thinking and scribing away the days. The cash comes rolling in, great waves of money, as royalty checks fill the overflowing mailbox.
What would anyone do if they found literary success? Quit the day job, straight away, and not look back. Could the stress of producing the next NYT bestseller be any greater than the stress of a dull occupation, the clients demanding more and the boss putting on the pressure to produce? To spend one's days in creating would be bliss indeed, even though the process of writing is mentally painful. Like an addiction, the urge to write becomes stronger with every passing minute, and putting pen to paper brings blessed relief. But the relief does not last, the urge comes back, and the writer must face the blank page, physically in need of written words that do not always come easy. In spite of that, the sweet misery of writing cannot compare to the drudgery of the day job.
And after the daily grind is left behind? A room of one's own would be a delight, to shut the door and shut out the world and compose prose. No one telling you to run this one there and pick up that and we're out of medicine over here. Is that why it is so difficult to write a complete novel? A universe of distractions and duties are pulling at you, tugging from one end to the other until you find that something has to give, and that something is writing.
But there is a way to savor the pleasures of writing. There is time in the day, or rather, the night. Who needs sleep?