But as a writer, you really have to be careful.  You have to be careful of making too much out of mental forms and thought.  Thinking is only a tiny, and oft misleading, part of the total conscious awareness.  To indulge in too much defining thought, we limit ourselves, we do not rise above...  And so you end up being wary of what is written.

So, you have to wonder.  Were the years spent writing a novel or a memoir an exercise defeating the purpose of the high consciousness one is capable of, coinciding with a period of unhappiness spent fascinated by form and egotistical things?  The life in service industry, say the restaurant business, could be construed from a number of angles as supporting the falseness of 'the pleasurable experience.'  That life could also represent a fascination with perceived inner pain of a certain kind of mentality or form of ego, a perpetuation of another kind of falseness, not being in the mode of simple alive presence that marks the proper way to be in the present.  Yes, you could look at it that way, a many pronged kind of misery marked by attachment, attachment causing suffering, the attachment to the form of 'story' (a way of 'figuring things out,' bordering, indeed, on obsession), the attachment to other satisfactions of empty pleasures, a moment of numbness, wine, song, dining, not an increase of consciousness, but a lessening thereof.

Yes, anytime you sit down to write something, or define an experience, you have to be careful and circumspect, highly present in that which is Now.

But I guess or gather that you might have to go through a way of realizing that the attachment to form isn't the way to proceed with life.  You have to learn a lesson.  And though things written may seem to ponder over materiality and the defining of everything as it is done by the Ego, maybe the larger lesson comes through, an attempt at thought.