Read my novel! ... Someday?

Why is it that prose proud pen-pushing prats like me yearn to novelize? Put me in a bookshop and I consistently have two reactions: (1) booklust in the form of wanting to buy hundreds of titles and lock myself away for a few years; (2) the desire to write a novel! Momentarily, the latter seems so much more sensible. But I'm not sure. Why on earth do we want to write books? So few people read the damn things. The manuscript-laden writer chasing a publisher is the second most worn cliché among the peevish creative set, pipped only by acress-waitresses, and just beating out singer-songwriters pimping demo tapes. That these are clichés doesn't mean the quests they represent aren't noble. For all but those with great talent, however, it's a state that is, in the end, hopeful, but disillusioned. Every time I read a great novel, I'm grateful the author fought beyond all the sane arguments not to write it. When I think of writing one, myself, I'm much more compelled by those arguments. Still, the desire is there. Give my writing - which, hell, I'm going to do anyway - some purpose, some structure, some direction. Challenge myself, just seeing if I can do it, and if the result will be any good. Get the idea - which has been festering there for several years - out of my head once and for all. And, let's face it, the desire to be published, to join the club of people who can call themselves authors, with their own Breakfast At Tiffany's, New York Public Library moment.