As a writer, the most important lesson can be learned from the symbol of the exile, the outcast, the proverbial lone wolf.
Because you must be just like that exile, the outcast, and the proverbial lone wolf, and you must, unless you happen to have a good word processing program or are one of those post-modernists, know how to spell on top of all that.
The great advantage to having this aura of being the exile, the lone duck, the fortuitous hermit with a heart of gold, is that you have a good deal less people asking you for free copies of your book.
No, it is best, young heart, to watch those gulls soaring overhead, soaring for better shores, swooping every now and then for a bite to eat out of the river, to keep up strength, you understand, to make it across the waters wide and deep, knowing that you are best like them, soaring, away, not taking into account, of course, that they all seem to be flying away together, nor that quite a few of them have gotten a terrible case of indigestion from the things floating in the viscid brown winding superfluous majestic river. Watch those gulls, and dream, dream dear heart, of an escape, a transcendence of your mundane soil, transcending all the way to the luminaries that doth light yonder sky so bright.
Either that or get a good word processor, with a good spelling program, sit down in your room, hovel, basement, wherever you find solitude or space, and type, type to your heart's content in that lonely lonely hour, wherein no sound escapes unnoticed, and you become terribly frightened of the sound the furnace makes every half hour or so, like it's belching, and smoke begins pouring out, filling your tiny basement, quite possibly with fumes that are dangerous to even the most misanthropic of writerly types (whom you might expect not to be bothered by that sort of thing that most mortals fear, namely, carbon mononxide, or anything you attempt to breath that isn't oxygen), and which pose a rather serious threat to your writerly like almost exile type existence.
It is the most noble of occupations, and, as my earlier typo went, which none of you saw, but I will now reproduce quite faithfully, also a fairly moist occupation, taking into account the water/seagull thing of before and the basement scenario that could quite possibly be an avenue to explore.
disclaimer:
You, you modern day Natty Bummpo, you stringent soul, you sole wanderer, you crazy writer, you, go forth, be prosperous, be fertile, flange like a chicken, and may ye not return until the fruits of your labours be quite quite ripe, but not overripe, and definitely without those brown spots, as then you know you've gotten too ripe, and should make pies.
Yer Weekly Horoscopes. special, this week, and every week.