Unphysical Act: There Is No Sweat Running

¶ … unphysical act: there is no sweat running down the brow; no racing heart; no expending of significant calories or building bulky muscles. Writers can be as sedentary as they wish; in fact, they usually work sitting down. Writers can get fat or as drunk as possible without impeding a natural flow of words. There is nothing inherent in the act of putting pen to paper (or typing) that requires physical exertion. The wheelchair-bound can savor the fruits of their literary creations as robustly as can the athlete. Yet writing can be one of the most exhausting stationary activities. It requires concentration and attention on par with that of a hockey goaltender, and after a long session of creative or analytical endeavors, rest and a good stretch are most appreciated.

Writing is not usually a team sport, although it can be. Most often it is a solo performance, a choreographed expression of characters strung together in meaningful new sequences. Writing is a dance, a spontaneous or planned composition of creative import. The finished product is placed before a discerning audience, who judges the presentation according to both personal feeling and objective rules: Is the work sensual? Does it make sense? Does the artist succeed at clear communication of ideas? Is it satisfying, worth our money?

Dance transmits and transforms raw emotion through movement; writing delivers meaning through static words and letters. Both convey original, creative feelings and ideas. The tools of the dance are simple: the body. The tools of prose or poetry are equally as minimalist: the mind. Both dancing and writing serve as modes of communication; both necessitate an interaction between artist and audience. The reader or the viewer must disengage from the rest of the world, suspend reality and disbelief and concern for the self. For the audience to truly appreciate either a dance or a written work, the artist must effectively translate the contents of one mind to another. The mediums are different, but the exchange of emotion and ideas are the same.

Both writing and dancing can be entirely instinctive, unbidden, and impromptu. Scribbling words on a napkin in a bar, the poet weaves his craft from thin, smoky air. Contorting her frame into impossible stances and leaping across the hardwood floor, the dancer paints the story of her life without a planned palette. All the dancer needs is perhaps a little music to stir the impulse to move; all the writer requires is a single thought or feeling for the fingers to fly. A timed essay, no outline permitted, is like a random street dance performance: unplanned, unorganized, and perhaps a bit chaotic. But the end product is cohesive and creative, even if raw and unfinished. Any dance or any piece of writing undergoes editing, revision, and reworking. The initial output is rarely the final result, and quality comes often after days, weeks, or years of painstaking reviews and changes. Even then, the piece may not be perfect.

Dances and written works both come long and short, slow and swift, angry and joyful. A 500-word article or a 500,000-word tome take time and trouble; likewise do a one-minute solo stint on stage or a two hour-long pageant. Words can be cloaked to avoid derision or deliberately fancy. Dancers may don glittering costumes or perform nude. Writing can be a slow-going activity, fraught with blocks and obstacles. An article can put to sleep as easily as it can entertain. A dance may mimic walking through a tar pit, the body sluggish and deliberately slow. Or the performance can become a whirlwind, a spectacle, a mass of sound, color, and movement. Dances and works of written art can be dry and lacklustre or they can be vibrant and provocative. Dances and pieces of writing can be erotic or they can be conservative. A dance can tell a story about love or heartache or it can be an abstract analysis of human movement.