Writing is the poor person’s art, just like soccer is the poor person’s sport. All you need to play soccer is a will, for a ball can be made out of torn nylon stockings, my friends from Chile tell me, or a leather case wrapped around fabric in Africa or, as they
do in Thailand, a flexible plaited bamboo ball they call a takraw. Balls can be made out of local materials, and then all that is required is willing children and a relatively flat surface.
Likewise of the arts, writing requires little. We all remember the Marquis de Sade smearing feces in Quills in 2000, but few of us are that desperate. At most we would need paper or a paper substitute and a pen, or a pencil, or something sharp that leaves a trace on the surface. When we think of the requirements of the other arts, the canvas and the paint and the stone for sculpting, we realize how lucky a writer is. I read a story in a Reader’s Digest many years ago about an artistic boy who is compelled to draw. His father saves him packing paper when he very occasionally visits the shops, but most of the time, because he is living in the forest, he resorts to charcoal tipped sticks from the fire and birch bark. As you might expect, because it is Reader’s Digest, he becomes a famous painter in the end. The story constantly reminded us that paper was a luxury but such was the level of his commitment that he would draw on anything.
The writer is equally driven, but given the flat ground of the soccer pitch, and the bundle of rags of the ball that is a pen and paper, nearly anyone has access to their art. They may be equally driven to write as the boy was to draw and paint, but they can engage with their craft on the bus while commuting, on the beach while vacationing, and while at work when the boss is looking the other way. Although that leads many unfortunates to presume that ease of access equals ability, and has led to millions of blogs—like this one you are reading right now—it also indicates that no matter who you are, or your background, or how few people are reading, you are free to bend the words to your will. You need heed none of the worries of the other arts as you cheaply engage in your craft and, if you need the interaction of a community, there are millions like you happily posting opinion and conjecture online.
Given those minimal constraints, I wonder sometimes why more people don’t write. I’m not especially driven to it, although I am drawn to stories like a ghoul to a grave, but it is entertaining enough on its own, that even without an audience I’m surprised that others don’t take up the pursuit. When I think about those I know, however, those whose stories tumble from them when we have a quiet moment together and yet never touch pen to paper, I think I realize what the problem is.
Run off our feet as we are, frantic to purchase the elusive vacuum cleaner part of our desires, we make multiple trips from one side of the town to another, but rarely pause to reflect. The words upon the page are the direct result of slowing down, of forcing the human attention to linger for a moment on something that might seem mundane to our neighbours. Then, once we’ve stilled the rush, we have the chance to convey what we saw, what we felt, and with our charcoal and ochre and the 
cave wall before us, we draw the magnificent bisons of our dreams so people ten thousand years from now may enjoy what we felt.
Writing is the still pool of the rushing stream, that reflects the trees and yet is translucent enough to allow a view of the wary crayfish and the alert trout. The rapids may seem pleasant enough on the face of them, but with upon scrutiny we can tell the stream moves gaily over rocks only for itself. Greedily, it keeps what it learns to itself, and neither allows us to see the depths or reflects the sky. Writing is the communicative urge, while pinballing from one part of our busy errand-filled life to another, we merely are moving meat.
