Beyond what writing makes ... writing also falls into that quicksilvery category of practice.’
Now, knowing how to write might indeed bring one fame, fortune, freedom, friendship and fawning, however writing offers its devotees something else. Beyond what writing makes - novels, short stories, plays, articles, performance art, graffiti, poetry, lyrics, reports, letters, memoir or artist books - writing also falls into that quicksilvery category of practice. A practice is one of those mysterious involvements that very few of us know how to explain. It is something you have, but it is not have-able. It costs you nothing, but you'd give your house and car away rather than give it up. It holds and anchors you in your darkest moments, but when people ask you to talk about it, sometimes you can only mumble. It is an activity that brings you enormous joy, but you will circle around it endlessly, in the anxiety of anticipation. You know that you're more 'you' than ever when you are in touch with it, but when you forget to do it, you sometimes can't spot what is missing, except that everything feels 'normal'. It gives you an inexplicable sense of quiet dignity to know that you can do it, yet sometimes everything around you will seem to be whispering, 'don't bother...' In short, writing (as practice) is wild, comforting, random, orderly, so hard, thrilling, terrifying and often monotonous. Those who practice writing as practice, have a high chance that the world might be curious about what they produce via this strange preoccupation. On the other hand, even without this, the thing you'll know for sure is that writing will have been that little keyhole that opened your mundanity into wonder. Some people grow lettuce as a practice, and this is a very good thing indeed. If, however, your fingers prefer to be black than green, then writing might be that splendid risky liaison your parents warned you about. And ... along the way, you probably won't be able to avoid getting a few things published.