I am often struck by the unhappy destiny awaiting a creative young person in the modern world. In childhood they will demonstrate a gift of some kind: they are musical, or athletic, or have a flair for drama; and their education and training will go off in that particular direction, in the tacit assumption that as an adult they will sustain themselves in that arena. In reality, most will eventually become teachers or coaches unless they end up in a fast food joint or a desk job.

It is hard to fathom why a society would perpetuate such cruelty, producing a plethora of concert level violinists, for example, at a time when orchestras and their audiences are shrinking. But writing, it seems to me, has become the most common pitfall. Universities churn out multitudes of young writers, each a unique individual having something to say and wanting to be heard. They go forth proclaiming their uniqueness in lyrical prose and prosaic poetry, only to face the hard truth that every creature born is just as unique and that in the literary world the lightning bolt of stardom strikes but few. The lucky ones might get by writing crime or romance novels, religious tracts, children's books or cookbooks, the only sorts of things of interest to most other people - and the rest will become teachers. 

Is there any conceivable way then for the talented person growing up in this world to preserve that creativity from being obliterated? Along with a day job, that person must be able to continue expressing that creativity even knowing it will receive no attention. Take your fiddle outside to the roof, like Tevye. Write for future archeologists, who just might unearth your manuscript as they mine the ruins of our civilization. Write because you are a writer.