Writing is akin to the process of rain. When cold and clouds accumulate, and their mass exceeds what the air can sustain, rain begins to pour. Rain cannot fall from a cloudless sky. Similarly, an empty mind or the arid landscape of imagination yields no abundance, just as a clear sky yields no rain.
Writing begins to pour when clouds of ideas gather and hang heavy across the firmament of imagination. For those who cannot pour it into the form of the word, the unspoken is displaced: it is shed as a tear, released as laughter, or swallowed as helplessness.
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