Lost paragraph from a memoir, maybe

For decades, on a daily basis I have squired myself off to some poorly insulated corner to “write,” an act that—with very few exceptions—has been requested of me by no one. Think about this for a moment, think about the phantasmagorical levels of delusion it takes to be a writer, or any creative person, really, who thinks they have a “gift.” In spite of the endless form letters and form e-mails and returned manuscripts and unreturned phone calls that signify yet another rejection, we keep on going with these stories and these novels and these long-form essays and (god help us), poetry because we tell ourselves that someone, somewhere cares whether we write.