A Writer's Woe

I've wanted to be a writer forfreekingever...
definition (subject to interpretation)
writer= recluse who pounds outs 90,000 words. Writes, rewrites, labors over, lovingly scrutinizes, mercifully cuts, shreds, then reconstructs and preferably sells said words to a major house for a decent amount of money.
I suppose there's a goodly amount of people in this world who share my same dream. There is, I'm sure, just as many who may or may not be in denial over the willpower and general lack of laziness it takes to accomplish this.
There are as many excuses as there are words in this world.
Yet tonight I'm reading Poppy Z. Brite's journal and came across the strangest lament I've ever read from a published writer, about writing(see definition above).
She writes...
"At the risk of closing with yet another eye-roller, I sometimes think my characters deserve a better author. They are good, honest, hardworking people whose lives have, after all, been torn apart just as thoroughly as mine. It's too bad they didn't luck out and occur to some young, hungry writer still stupid enough to believe s/he can triumph over the cannibalistic evils of Big Publishing."
Wow. Just. Wow.
I need to chew that over more.
The Happy Medium
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