Writing is hard.
Publishing is harder.
There’s a bell curve. The weakest get weeded out early on. They talk about wanting to write, and the book they’ve always imagined, but never actually sit down to write.
On the top end you lose the truly gifted. The delicate orchids of writer-dom who make beautiful poetry out of the simplest sentence but can’t survive the harsh rejection of winter.
Bit by bit the edges of the mob are eaten away. The weak who write can’t survive the edit, or the query, or the poor sales. The orchids are dainty but can’t handle the criticism, the rejections, the edits, or the poor sales.
The survivors are the ones who aren’t the best or brightest, but the toughest. The mean SOBs who take a hit and come roaring back with another book. And another. And another. Not because we’re particularly gifted, or right, or good but because we’re stubborn cusses who like words.