There's a character

in Slaughterhouse Five, and probably some other crap written by a one-off Hack like Vonnegut or Salinger,
that writes fiction.
He writes unsuccessful, bitter science fiction, but at least he's writing.
I want to be him.

That's a dream for the weak, or the broken idealists.

"Here's another one," he said aloud, his hands raised, lifting his tie out of his cup of coffee.

"Here's another what, Dan?" his wife asked, smoking a cigarette at the breakfast table.

"A guy I knew in high school died. He was third string Debate team or something. He had a mustache his sophomore year. Another guy in the Metro, he was arrested. Meth, probably. He looked haggard on the news yesterday." He folded the paper in half and looked at his wife, looked her square in the eye. "It's hell to have all of your friends in prison or dead."

She pushed her cigarette in the tray and smeared the glass. "Well, that's why I don't have friends, Dan."

"It's only a matter of time," he said, unfolding his paper and dipping his tie in coffee.