Paul Auster, in his New York Trilogy, talks about the growth of an author. The growth that begins with mumblings, or some form of it in writing, and then the maturity in the language, its power, articulated to strike your thoughts. It is not easy, to bring out the complexity of your imagination in a language. Perhaps, interestingly, what you write can turn out, over time, more severe than what you think. Take of it as two languages – one, your own, probably composed from a human language (for instance, see Umberto Eco on Language influencing and forming thoughts) and the other, the human language, perfect for your expressions but not at your disposal completely. The word ‘barricade’ can be a appropriate metaphor.

There are many schools of thought that define, nay even dictate, the form a write should take. There is the Derrida sort, opaque in a sense, troubling in another. All the same, I find that style of writing obscene since the claim, and the boast, seems to be in the blurring of clarity. If this is you, then instead find home in minimalism. Ernst Hemmingway is a classical evangelist for the minimalist school of writing. Short sentences form sturdy stuff. Perhaps, this is why minimalism is appreciated in science. By limiting the length of a sentence, you force the emphasis on the words used, and not two or three strings of thought all muddled and intertwined DNA-style.