On the subject of Writing, the Armchair Pseudosopher had this to say:

Write.

Write every single day. Even if you only write two hundred words. Try writing with your hand(s) instead of typing on some stupid blog, pretending that you’re good at it, actually knowing that you’re not, being exposed for the fraud that you are, and hoping praying wishing that somebody’s going to give you attention for it.

This provides practice.

Practice? What for?

For not being pathetic. There is no excuse for an inability to express oneself. Writing provides a means for one to practice expression without audience, without boundary, as it were. Or, equivalently, it could be an exercise in practicing expression with only oneself.

Chatting with your friends on IRC can (but probably probably doesn’t) amount to writing. IRC, by the way, is internet relay chat, a pseudotechnical term I picked up from my days of netaddiction. Netrehab was not fun. It’s not just about locking you in a room without an internet connection. They actually hook you up with a pen pal somewhere across the world (another rehab inmate) and won’t let you out till you’ve exchanged at least half a dozen postal mail each way. People you email and chat with are also investigated for addiction, so don’t be surprised if when you get out nobody’s your ‘friend’ any more.

Do I have to be politically correct and say that of course it is excusable for the comatose to be unable to express themselves?

And GWB, of course.

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