Anyway, below is a passage from Jeff VanderMeer's "The Strange Case of X," one of the short stories City of Saints and Madmen. This part is a story within the story, a fable that X has written to explain what it's like for him, being a writer.
By this time it was dusk. He knew it was dusk because he could feel the dusk inside of him, choking his lungs, moving across that part of him which housed his imagination. He coughed up a little darkness, but thought nothing of it. There is a little darkness in every writer. And so he sat down to dinner with his wife and her daughter and they asked him how the writing had gone and he said, "Rotten! Horrible! I am not a writer. I am a baker. A carpenter. A truck driver. I am not a writer." And they laughed because they knew he was a writer, and writers lie. And when he coughed up a little more darkness, they ignored it because they knew that there is a little more darkness in a writer than in other souls.
I found these pictures - and several more - here.