No question, he has to suffer! 
He was a writer who couldn’t write anything good. As he had a happy life, his stories were inhibited by laziness and the inertia that occurs when everything is going too well and you don’t long for somewhere else.
To temper his spirit, he looked for a daily dose of unhappiness by making wrong choices that nobody would ever make, like taking unnecessary risks and meeting the wrong women. But luck persecuted him like the bite of a pitbull that can’t feel its owner’s blows. He couldn’t imagine it, generally those who write are running away from a problem, if not from a series of problems, and only in writing do they find pleasure and a sense of victory. He, on the other hand, a writer with a tried and tested technique, had no problems except for his own boring luck, a silly pleasure to use up effortlessly. Resigned to his happy routine as if it were the worst possible of vices, he ended up throwing himself into erotic plots spiced up with peaks of sadism to keep the reader’s interest. He had just changed genre but he was still a writer, a happy writer and nothing more.