I’ve realized, quite recently, that good writing *is* thinking slowly. Good writing captures the jumps one’s extended cognitive faculties make when thinking about *anything*. This must be partly the reason why good writing makes us think “Aha! This makes perfect sense; I wonder whether I have not thought of the same thing.” In good writing, the tiny gap between two sentences are stretched wide open into a vast crevasse, a crevasse which is then filled up with all the tiny tap-dance moves the mind makes. Good writing is about capturing these tiny moves, capturing yourself dancing through, almost like how one catches their reflection on the glass walls of shops lining the road.
The problem with good writing, I suppose, is that it gives the reader a misplaced sense of confidence that they can replicate the writing with as much clarity as the original. This, however, cannot be further from what happens next. You are sat at the computer trying to write something but your mind wouldn’t catch up with your keyboard and you waste your time doubting whether you are really capable of doing it.