... I'd be a gray suited industry worker possessing a dead brain and whining about how I wished I could write like those other people. I'd be bored beyond reason--an empty vessel waiting for others to fill in the lots bits and hoping they were enough. Instead I make my own happiness. A writer can never truly be lonely or without diversion.
In short, I'd be living in the 1984 novel. Or I'd tell Big Brother to fuck off and be an archaeologist reading cave-paintings.