I just finished three pies for our church ice cream social, held on the Fourth every year. I like making pies. They require a little expertise, they look pretty if they're done well, and they get you all sorts of compliments from people who hope you will make more.
On this Fourth, the pies reminded me of my novels. They, too, take some expertise, and I've worked many, many years, days, and hours to get to the point where I know that I will need to work many more years, days and hours. You never arrive as a writer, in my opinion: you just keep working at it.
Mysteries are pretty when well done, despite a few bloodstains here and there. With characters the reader can root for, a plot that is intriguing and not too obvious, and all the other literary elements considered and polished, a writer creates art.
And the compliments! Nothing makes a writer happier than to have a reader say, "When will there be more?"
I'm working on it. Have another piece of my pecan pie while you wait.