You might say I’ve been sentenced to a life of sentences. Reading them. Writing them. Rewriting them. Tweaking them. Agonizing over them. Forming them into paragraphs (and paragraphs into pages, and pages into stories).
People pay me to make sentences because their worlds generate big, messy piles of things, mostly facts, observations and judgments. Their story is somewhere in that pile. If I rummage through it and pull out the stuff that tells their story to their liking, they write me a check.
If they don’t, they try their luck with another of my kind.