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We writers have thick skin.
Usually.
We can drag ourselves out of our misery when you criticize our work, and we can force ourselves to put on a happy face when the sixty-thousandth rejection letter comes in.  (By the way, agents and publishers ARE still looking for talent, right?  It's not like all these folks are just representing and publishing teen-vampire books and dystopian angst-tales, right?)
Anyway.
We can get over some of that.
What is tougher to get over is that notion that writing "isn't all that hard."
Um.  Yeah it is.
Then, when that mongoloid barbarian -- whose last trip to the "theatre" consisted of his second viewing of Transformers 4 -- continues his judgement, he blurts out another insult.  "Most of the writers that I hear about don't even write for that long."  Listen, my uncultured heathen "friend," writing isn't just click-clacking our fingers on our MacBooks.  Writing is a process.  Writing takes time.  And believe it or not, (and for you -- my hairy-knuckled friend -- this part may be very difficult to comprehend) the time we spend THINKING is also writing.  That's right.  
Oh, sometimes we sit down and the words just come flying out and we do everything we can to keep up with our brains spitting tons of dialogue, settings, sight, sounds, smells, and actions on the page.  Sometimes.  Man, those times are awesome.
But most of the time, we are looking at a blank page and barely keeping ourselves from either freaking out -- or from distracting ourselves with Twitter.  #MSWL is a black hole of a hashtag, after all.  But then, when we finally walk away from the blank screen and the pull of YouTube, we might take a walk.  Or just sit.  Or drive.  Or like the Master Tolkien did -- suck on an ancient wooden pipe in an English pub.
And just...
Think.
Think of how to get our hero out of that weird laser trap.
Think of how in the world that young lady would find that misunderstood friend attractive at all.
Think of how our villain is so cartoony, that he might as well be twirling a stupid mustache.
Think of how Act 3 will actually come together, now that we have uber conflict.

And it usually doesn't come to us during those times.
And that really sucks.

So we give up and tell our spouse that we will go get milk that we've been asked to get approximately six hours ago.  And right when we are standing in line, holding that icy jug and waiting for the old lady who still thinks the world uses checks, we realize how our hand is so cold.  It hurts.  But it sparks something.  And suddenly, we know the answer.  

Then we go home and click-clack on the keyboard.

So see, Captain Monobrow?  We even write when we buy milk.  We write.  All the time.  Our brain doesn't stop.  It's a blessing and curse.  The way a car door sounds when it slams.  The incessant smell of something burnt from earlier that day that we can't get out of our heads.  The shimmer of the moon on the blow-up kiddie pool in the front yard.  The coldest milk jug freezing our tender hands.
We use it.  We use it all.  Hopefully to give you a story that has more to offer than 'sploshuns, racist robots, and jump cuts.

Writers write.  Even when they're not typing.

Anyone want to meet me at the Eagle and Child?  I have some writing to sip.