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I was trying to write Monday evening when little gray paws appeared on the edge of my chair. Oliver was purring as he climbed onto the chair.

My MacBook was in my lap and I was hard at work. But Oliver started kneading his paws up and down on my belly as he tried to wedge himself into a space that was already full. He wanted attention.

And what was more important to me? Some work that could wait a few more minutes or some quality time with a purring cat who loves me?

I put the MacBook onto the nearby bed and let Oliver take over my lap. He draped himself over me and looked up expectantly. He wanted me to rub him and he made that clear. When I complied with his wishes, the purring got louder.

As I sat here letting a warm gray bundle of fur dictate my schedule for a few minutes, it occurred to me that this wasn’t the most efficient use of my time — but it was important to both of us in ways that are hard to explain.

We spend so much of our lives asking whether something is productive that we sometimes forget to ask whether it’s meaningful.

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How long can a human being stew in a cesspool of hatred and anger and meanness before he’s permanently changed? How long until he’s so full of bitterness that there’s no love left in his heart?

We’re seeing that happen in real time in our society right now. Different people are responding in very different ways. Some good people are becoming so bitter and angry that they can focus on almost nothing so much as hurting the people they see as the enemy. Some people who were already angry and unloving are now so full of hatred that they spew bitter vitriol constantly.

And some are so horrified to find themselves in this cesspool that they’re almost despondent about what they’re experiencing.

I’ve been trying for years now to process what I’ve been feeling about the toxic online culture that we’ve created for ourselves. I’ve gone back and forth about what to do about it, but I haven’t really done much about it. I’ve been left ambivalent, because I can’t live with what I experience here — but I’ve found it impossible to truly pull away from it.

Whatever this thing has become, I can’t escape blame. I want to point fingers. I want to say, “Look at what you’ve done!” But in my heart, I know I’ve been a part of it, too. I’m to blame.

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Almost anyone can type. Some of those people can write and think clearly enough to shape a coherent story. A tiny fraction of those do it well enough to get a good novel published.

Anyone can splash paint onto a canvas. Even if you have no talent for illustration or composition or brush strokes, you can make painted shapes and call it modern art. A tiny fraction of those can convince critics that their work should be sold in galleries.

It’s true for every field of art. With the tools that are readily available today, almost anyone can make a creative project — a film, a sculpture, a photograph, a book. A few of those will be really good.

It requires talent and work and patience and luck to produce something that most people would see as art. It’s incredibly difficult. It’s something many people spend a lifetime trying to do.

But as difficult as those things are, it’s even harder to earn a living today with art.

For some people, it’s simply because their work isn’t good enough. But even many people who produce excellent work can no longer make a living from the art they most want to create.

The world has changed in ways that make things very hard for creative people today. I don’t like the changes. I’ve ranted about those changes and been angry about them, as have many creators.

But the media world of the past is gone. It’s not coming back. For me, that means I have to change. It’s time for me to stop fighting reality.

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