Nikki Petroni and Kurt Borg

It is quite natural to feel envious of those who are capable of facilely articulating their thoughts and transforming the abstract confusion of a multitude of ideas into a logical, structured text. There are moments when, whilst indulging in the lyrical eloquence of writers like Virginia Woolf, Aldous Huxley, Dostoevsky and their contemporaries, one is mentally and physically immersed in a bittersweet state of elation and disquietude. There are feelings incited by the reading of a good book that also serve as reminders of ineptitude. The talent of condensing so many layers of existential, social and political preoccupations into a well-written, non-fragmented piece of writing that grips readers from beginning to end, and that has implicit aesthetic value, is one that is most admirable as well as necessary.

Our daily lives involve regular writing for our doctoral thesis and other academic activities. In the process of studying historical objects and philosophical texts, numerous thoughts implode like fireworks met with the excited gasps of an overwhelmed audience. Sometimes, depending on the quality of recent output, they feel more like petards disrupting a Sunday morning lie-in. Every day is a challenge; a struggle with our own ideas and knowledge, with those of others, with ever-present distractions, and the damning temptation of the greatest rival of productivity: procrastination. The wandering mind has several outlets to guide it through a series of journeys along the conduits of idleness.

Idleness, however, is unfairly vilified by those who do not encounter it often, or who attach a moral value to the act of physically doing nothing. Seeming unproductive is a social crime that will garner many scornful expressions. Yet it is precisely the process of thinking that leads to a supposed idleness. It allows for contemplation and reflection, for those rare moments of introspection momentarily suppress the cacophony of contained thoughts.

Walter Benjamin advocates unmediated noise levels for writing conditions as balance is inwardly achieved by the author: "accompaniment by an etude or a cacophony of voices can become as significant for work as the perceptible silence of the night. If the latter sharpens the inner ear, the former acts as a touchstone for a diction ample enough to bury even the most wayward sounds."

Silence is a prerequisite. "A pause is needed, sometimes a pause of a minute, sometimes a pause of a month, and sometimes yet longer." (Giuseppe Schembri Bonaci, 'Why I write', Malta Independent on Sunday, October 31, 2010).

Writing itself is a convoluted task. Clarity is what the writer aims for when reifying thoughts, but clarity is easier thought of than attained, despite the juxtaposition of unfermented ideas. To quote a quote within a quote by Schembri Bonaci: "When I write, or rather try to write, I in fact start to feel and understand what Gabriel Josepivoci is trying to articulate in his lectures and publications, that in today's world all artists feel a kind of "revulsion at having for the sake of something called art, to repeat the confused and half-thoughts, through actions of their predecessors, which far from shedding light on the human condition, only muddied the waters"."

Some forms of writing, such as academic writing, transform the activity of writing from something that one pursues leisurely into something one is obliged to do irrespective of one's immediate desires. This begs the question of how to sustain an element of style in an activity which involves interpreting, rethinking, and commenting on texts which were probably authored under similar conditions of hesitance.

Academic writing sways between being something technical which one does by rote, and something which is creative. Loosely interpreting Joseph Hillis Miller's essay "The Critic as Host", it is possible to imagine the academic writer as a parasite who clings onto a text, is enriched by it, and possibly engaging critically with the text against the intentions of the original text.

Yet, the term parasite might have connotations that are unilaterally negative. This is not always the case with writing. The writer-as-parasite is someone who lovingly grapples with a text, and generously lays out the arguments in a way that does them justice while allowing for the possibility that the content of the text might be led to new places.

Writing is not merely a representative activity. One does not write just to report what's in one's head in a transparent way. We write in order to channel our thoughts, but also to clarify and sharpen them. In writing lies the possibility to experiment with one's own thought. Writing has the rich capacity to lead one to new places of thought that can inform how one relates to oneself, others, and the world.

Importantly, writing is a process of self-transformation. In an interview, the French philosopher Michel Foucault once spoke about how he relates to writing and said: "If I had to write a book to communicate what I'm already thinking before I begin to write, I would never have the courage to begin. I write a book only because I still don't exactly know what to think about this thing I want so much to think about, so that the book transforms me and transforms what I think."

This power of writing to change the author cannot be underestimated. The physical activity of writing (even if it's typing) reminds us of how thoughts, like artefacts, come to be in a patient, intimate and delicate way. Writing and rashness cannot co-exist. To paraphrase Friedrich Nietzsche, writing, like close reading, demands patience, and to do it properly, humans need to act more like cows by learning the art of slow rumination.

In a world of rough opinions, rash reactions, and unthought utterances, where what matters more is the speed with which an opinion is generated rather than its depth, the slow and patient labour of writing contains a potential for resistance. Sometimes, not even the academic world appreciates the virtues of patient well thought out work.

Writing requires clear-mindedness. It is crucial to have a public sphere that is conducive to thoughtful expression. No matter how isolated the activity of writing might be, its effects are necessarily public. Writing is a response to and an engagement with sociality, and there is an onus on writers to make their writing, even if technical, accessible to an intelligent public and not just to those accustomed to the academic language game.

Hence the importance of public spaces that are conducive to thought and deliberation. Writing flows beyond the safe confines of academic corridors into society, and such smooth flowing is essential for a healthy democracy. 

If you'll excuse the phrasing, writing is the gift that keeps on giving. It's necessary for the generation of ideas, for the elucidation of concepts, and for the development of new ways of life. Without it, our world loses its colours and its flavours. Writing does not have a clear beginning or a clear ending. Writing happens, and must keep on happening. The American author Ernest Hemingway, who had a thing or two to say about writing, said that on a writing day one must stop writing only at a moment when one is going good and knows what one will write next. Only in that way does one avoid being stuck. If the flow of writing stops, we must face the dangers of stale air and stagnated water.