I hear ya on the freelance drag. I guess my parents' criticisms actually aren't too far off the mark. I'd always think about what writing (or art-making in general) meant, and I'd think it was a monument of a life. It would be something that would enter into the public consciousness and explain if not an age, at least one person's perception of this thing we call 'life'. But it's not a monument. It's a grain of sand that gets lost under everybody's feet.
I'm sorry. This is me at my melodramatic worst. Yeah, when I get back, first think I should do is join drama-queens anonymous. No, I guess I should write this into something.