Recovery of sight

It has been a lovely comfort to read Nick Hornby's 'Fever Pitch', which I am currently indulging in. I last read it when I was sixteen and it is still very funny and melancholic; i feel like I've reconnected with an old friend. It's also a relief to hear a successful writer articulate the same sad fears I hold now, and gives me some hope that my pretensions aren't completely worthless. It inspired me to write then, and writing is what I've always come back to, from when I was about six or seven. It's funny though becuase in a way, this is simply a method to convince myself that there is something fundamental to me writing, but there isn't really. It's just a choice, one which excites me, and I imagine it always will, but a choice, not a fate.

But what's the point in destroying the magic which comes in thinking like this? I want it to be fate really, and what's wrong with that?