Boo Hoo. Noone Understands Me.

Writers are a bunch a whining ingrates. Only at this moment in the history of mankind can we entertain the possibility that sitting in front of a machine, which costs more money than what the majority of people on the planet need to stay alive, to make up stories is justified. Two favourite moans of writers is that it is lonely (boo hoo) and really hard work (ah, you're breaking my heart now).
Let's clarify things.
Lonely is solitary confinement in prison. When you are writing you are alone. That's it. When you are done, you go to the pub or you kiss your wife on the cheek. Writing being lonely is not even close to being true. The modest things I have achieved thus far with my writing is because I have surrounded myself with talented people with whom I share my work and discuss the process of writing and celebrate our shared passion for these squiggling black lines that, better than any other art form, explain what it means to be human.
As for writing being hard work, hard work is being ten and sorting coal in a mine. Writing is about getting things right, being meticulous. And it's a privilege that my life has accumulated enough comfort to afford the hours wasted doing so.
Since I count myself as a writer and therefore by definition a whining ingrate, I will share with you my greatest complaint. I am exhausted by people confusing their desire to be an author as one desires to be a doctor or politician rather than desiring to write. You're an idiot if you think writing is a career choice.