The lightness of writing is like the lightness of a ballerina. She twirls, leaps, and balances in impossible poses; this all being on her own. With a male accompaniment, she is effortlessly lifted into the air as though she is as light as air. We all know that she is, in fact, heavy (although weight is relative considering a ballerina’s size). We also know that she has probably been training since the age of two. These are the logical observations we make after watching the ballet, but during we are suspended in disbelief that she is floating across the stage. A ballerina hides her strength in her beauty.
I’m sure you’ve heard about the ridiculous shoes ballerinas wear for point. Literally, all of their weight is focused on their toes, pressed against a hard piece of wood. Their feet blister and bleed until they sufficiently build up calluses. Yet, in this picture it is as if she doesn’t even touch the ground. The very tip of her shoe rests effortlessly on the floor. We see beauty; she knows the difficulty that it takes to get there.
The writer knows that if they were to write a piece that was effortless, it would not result in beauty, just like an audience would rather watch the ballerina who has trained for years over my personal dancing skills. (I’m hinting at the fact that I’ve never taken lessons).