If you write, you know him.
He sits in there, in your stomach, chewing. He doesn't want to hurt you. He just wants to get out.
He doesn't care if he ever becomes rich or famous... doesn't care if he is looked at with admiration or condemnation. He is an itch, a pain, and a time bomb wrapped up into one splinter and he must come out. He must be written or he will kill you.
This is not a hobby. This is not an art, to us. This is survival...