The first-person narrator of Chekhov’s short story “Confession, or Olya, Zhenya, Zoya” is a writer. He says: “But as you surely know, ma chere, this world of ours is a bad place for art. The world is big and bountiful, but a writer can find no place for himself in it! A writer is an eternal orphan, an exile, a scapegoat, a defenseless child! I divide mankind into two categories: writers and enviers. The former write, and the latter die of jealousy and spend all their time plotting and scheming against them.”
I divide mankind into two other groups: creators and troublemakers. There are, of course, subcategories: people who cleverly pretend to be creative, or people who are scared of foilers and then they become lacklusters.