I see now that writing is an expression of one’s self at a specific time in one’s life. Writing is not a skill developed over a period of time. Certainly, one may develop one’s expressions and thereby articulate more effectively – in other words, one may practice writing and learn just how to say what they want to say, just how they want to say it. In this way, writing most certainly seems like a skill.
Yet, a skill is a rote mechanism one performs in repetition. A master in a skill may recreate and repeat their skill into exhaustive redundancy. A dancer, for instance, learns her steps, learns her poses and she repeats these until her body physically disallows her from further performance. Nonetheless, if the dancer possessed an immortal body, the dancer would be able to repeat the very same steps cyclically into eternity.
Writing is different, just as painting or drawing is different. Writing is no less an art as dancing, but writing, unfortunately, disintegrates with the writer. As a child and young adult, writing bursts from the brain into shapes and forms, and strange things which no young writer can utter. The challenge of the young writer is simply harnessing this energy and shaping something intelligible. Many painful nights and long days are spent crafting.
As one gets older, the spectrum begins to flip. With much practice, the older writer knows exactly what to say and how to say it. But now the brain has begun to rot. The energy required comes in spurts. One month may be spent contemplating suicide for lack of energy when suddenly a thunderbolt cracks from above and the humble writer spends two or three days pounding out brilliant material.
You see, writing is no more a skill than laughing. One cannot practice laughing well. Writing is an expression in which one perfects themselves as a whole and learns to express. There is no mechanism in writing. There is no movement.
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