The story's burning or what it means to be a writer

I don't think you can become a writer. You can learn some writing tricks. You can start writing bad stories and progress to the better ones. You can go on that journey where you discover yourself through words. Hell, you can even take classes. Whatever. But you are born a writer, the same way you are born Lebanese. Or black. Or with a couple of feet size 6. You don't choose who you are. The stories choose you. Here's how it feels: 

That's right, ladies and gentlemen. The story is wriggling inside my head, like a child about to be born. It bothers me before I go to sleep. Some people are deprived of the latter due to money worries, political situation or work-related stress. While I am not jealous and perfectly aware of all the above, I have my own problems. Like I cried three nights in a row thinking about a funeral of one of my main characters. It still gets me going, because I love John White...

I am growing tired. My eyes are tired. My job means spending long hours in front of the computer screen, and then I just don't stop, because there is a scene in my head and it needs to be dressed in letters.

And why do I do it? It's not like it's a promise I made to anyone or a job prospect; it doesn't bring any profits. None of these things matter, though. If I were on the deserted planet, in some strange, apocalyptic world with the only fellow inhabitants being crocodiles, I would still write it all down. With my feet up and away from the river banks.