The vocation of writing when words are cheap

This is the worst season in history to feel the burden of writing, just like every other such season.  It is a peculiar habit of those who love words to use them to complain about them:  if it’s not the writing process that we lament, it’s a public who obviously missed the point or who refuses to pay what the words are so clearly worth.  It is tempting to think that the mark of one who calls himself a writer is not what they produce, but the volume of their griping about it all.