An art student registers for an introductory drawing class. On the first day, the teacher assigns the class to draw clouds.

The art student goes outside with a pad of paper and colored pencils to capture the clouds’ edges, shadows, and forms, detailing each puff and dimple as the ephemeral billows float by. Then, the student adds color to the clouds, realistically depicting them as if time itself was frozen. Satisfied, the student signs the work and shows it to the teacher.

“Hmmm,” the teacher says as her eyebrows furrow.

“Is everything okay?” asks the student.

“No,” says the teacher, “these clouds are all wrong.”

“What do you mean?” asks the student.

“I mean,” the teacher pauses and sighs, “You did a fine job illustrating clouds, but the assignment was to draw clouds.”

Illustrating and drawing are two different tasks. Illustrating is explanation. Drawing is expression. The difference between these concepts is analogous to writers. Wording is explanation. Writing is expression. Most writers learn to explain by wording; seldom do they learn to express by writing.

Public school, college, and newspaper commentary tainted my writing. These outlets cultivated me to think like the art student in the parable. Often, I am wording, and wording well, but I am not writing.

I have read many books about writing. They are almost all books about wording. And when the authors write about writing—like, actual writing—they offer only brief glimpses into writing.

This blog post is half wording and half writing. I deleted a section of tips on how to stop wording on start writing because I decided to write, which begins here <– and continues after the next period –> .

Every cloud is a miser. Hoarding the sky, they drift by. I watch them come and go as I panhandle them for some shade or rain. They lift their noses to the air and float away without a second glance.

Sometimes, the clouds pause, blow their tops, and throw hail my way. Then, they storm off.

But other times, they come together, and quench my thirst.

I don’t know how to spell cumolonimbis. In South Texas, everyone can spell drought. Here, the dry spells scare the shit out of the rich and the poor. Ain’t nothin trickling down when it’s 105°. How do I ask the climate for change?

Here I am, wording profound things, simply. It’d be a blessing if I was writing simple things, profoundly. It’s a muscle that shows its strength when it relaxes, not flexes.

photo credit.