Writing is a bodily action. The moment one focuses on the subject with the black document in front of oneself, it’s a communication between the writers thoughts and the voice trying to explain in the best possible manner. The flow is there sometimes, attempting to gush out at a ferocious velocity, screaming to express. Those are the good days.
The days when the mind, soul and body are not in sync, muscle memory and stock sentences take over the jog. It is like attending an early morning conference call on an empty stomach, fueled by a cuppa of americano. The deliverable or the report has to go to the client, and all creative juices are missing for the day. This is the usual status quo, when the aspirational writer dies, and the pragmatic scribe takes over.
The back, the head and the fingers all play a part in writing. Writing is not only cerebral, it is physical. Almost all writers including Murakami run, to keep fit or to clear the head.
Writing is a messy negotiation in the head; part indulgence, part content, part art and full performance of a textual kind, pleading to be read and appreciated. The format varies from a research paper to a consulting report to a mundane mail, but the mechanics of writing as a performance is consistent. Writing is the heart of intellectual life and it takes years of hard labor to write well, with flair and impact in equal measure. I have read my way to writing well to have been published in many arenas of note.
As you can observe, writing is a performance when you read the last line. It’s a sales pitch, of the soul.