Writing isn’t a process of thought transference; that’s a vulgar, unscrupulous designation — one that doesn’t account for its other facets. Writing isn’t, either, a process of thought generation; that too is an incomplete conclusion. Writing is a process of thought espousal; of veritable self-reclamation from nebulous inconsistency, an act punctuated with shrill paroxysms of the sound of our functional, humane existence, and the excitement of inspired creation. Writing isn’t an outlet, it isn’t relief, it isn’t a process of discovery, isn’t the persecution of falsehood or the enshrinement of truth; it isn’t laborious, isn’t relaxing, isn’t magically wondrous or frighteningly powerful; it isn’t the vilification of debilitating enemies, or the endearment of even more debilitating loves; it isn’t the deflation of political bombast or the satirical exclamation of dissent; it isn’t the violent vehemence of obstinancy, or the lucid composition of logical opposition; it isn’t the divination of paradoxical truth in fictional seedbeds, or the protracted sighs of possessed poets; it isn’t the dishonesty of delusions of impossible grandeur, the outrageous inflation of ego, or the humility of understood vastness of knowledge; it isn’t the fantasies of aspiration or the daydreams of distant, alluring accomplishment; it isn’t the accessible encapsulation of humour, or the reckless dispensation of ridicule; it isn’t the tantalising pangs of reading a well-written piece, or the titillation of resulting envy; it isn’t the (ostensible or otherwise) insurmountable failure of inadequacy, or the inscrutable ecstasy of rare success; it isn’t the immediacy of passion, or the didactic coolness of pedagogical instruction; it isn’t the means to infamy, fame, immortality, irrevocable ostracism, death; it isn’t the singular assertion of life, either, and it certainly isn’t the parsing of its meaning.
It’s all of those. And a few more things, too.