Writing is like playing an instrument, except words come out instead of notes.
There is a man who lives on the island I live on, who spends his time traveling along the shale beach looking for fossils. He takes a chisel and a hammer and goggles to protect his eyes and cracks open rocks that look promising. Somewhere along the way, he has decided to spend a lot of the time in his life doing this. It reminds me a lot of what I do, and is probably about as rewarding, both financially and in satisfaction.
The scenery is just as changing, mysterious, though his might be more dependably beautiful.