I'm not a dancer. I'm too self-conscious for it. I don't WANT to be...it's just the shape that nature and experience have pounded me into. I'm tall, easily seen by everybody in the room, and my feet are bigger than most of the folks around me. Eyes go the the tall guy; that's what I've learned with my time in this body. I feel it when I walk into a room or through a crowd, busting the average with my lanky frame. People look.
Not to mention, for me, there's no room to move on most dance floors. I have a wing span that could potentially endanger others within its large radius, and so I usually have to pin my arms to my sides and awkwardly shuffle my big man-shoes back and forth and hope I don't knock anybody over. I don't really get "that feeling" that people who enjoy it get. Not on the dance floor, anyway.
Writing is a dance. It's alternating flow and rhythm, sometimes long and descriptive and mechanically dense, complicated and evocative, and other times quick and punctuated. It's sometimes light and airy like popcorn, fluffy and superficial and meaningless, and then it's a steak slathered in gravy and mashed potatoes, solid and unyielding. It's quick, quick...slow...quick, quick...slow...STOMP STOMP STOMP!
When done right, like when a master does it, it can pull things out of you, sometimes cradling them and returning them whole, and other times throwing them on the ground and grinding them to delicious powder.
It took me too long to figure that out. I wish I'd realized it sooner. Oh well, I get it now. I suppose that's all that matters.
Back to work.