Seems to me authors are - out of the common occupations around the world - those most exposed to disease, depression and death. It's not strange, really, since they constantly find new ways to describe these scenarios and are always through their writing traumatically toying with placidly possible ends of life and chaotic conviction. You can't commonly be mentally disarranged without being a genius, and most geniuses apparently chose to portray their ideals and stories through works with words. Authors have a much shorter lifespan than the average hardworking regularian, those dedicated to any stable occupation complying regular mental/physical stimulus in a naturally routinized environment. Authors are the ones who work on the most irregular of basis, the ones who always are subject to the sometimes nonexistent and sometimes unbearable workloads, fatigued by their own senses of emotional devotion, sentenced to a lifetime of bad habits and irregularity
Then again, literature is the only true form of limitless portrail available, a one where all senses can be recorded and kept, in which there are guidelines as how to describe things so people understand you but yet no walls to keep out the sunlight when it does shine or hinder you from throwing new concepts to the crowds. For some there are no crowds, some writers phrase their thoughts in silence, some shine never seeps out of it's cavular dome, but authors still have freedom, the more the lesser they live. They can write when inspiration comes running, whenever the concept strikes them, they describe only what they chose, they can keep what is important to them, they throw away all irrelevant matter, they can live and support themselves solely by thinking, and by learning how to best convey those thoughts. They can research, if they like, they can read, they can listen, they can paint, they can convey what comes to mind. Through verses, pages, paragraphs, scripts and empty voids, trash bins filled with paper. I know I won't quit writing, not even if it kills me, it all comes eventually, on a siden-ote I wonder why I blog only under dreadfully cloudy visionless skies.