Writers love words and take any opportunity to heap up for admiration in great shifting creaking piles. On the other hand, readers love a clear message without having to wade through stacks of irrelevant bullshit to get to the center of the tootsie pop.
Somewhere between the two is the sweet spot. There's no need to throw every word in the library at the wall if you can come up with four or five that hit the mark just right– it's fluffy, sloppy, and inefficient, and there's nothing that makes me ball up my fists of fury more frequently than inefficiency because I am a testified INTJ, and as much as I hate those four-letter personality test I'll be damned if that one doesn't slide up my thighs like a perfectly tailored pair of pants.
I'm constantly challenging myself to get my point across using fewer words, or rather, more precise and deliberately chosen words. Even if I don't always tighten things up quite as virginally as I would prefer it's a good pie-in-the-sky-to-shoot-with-a-gun kind of target to put in the crosshairs.
I admire others who can speak so damn clearly. That's them, over there, and this is me, over here. On bad days it makes me want to tear my hair out, but the kind of clarity I admire in others is just not the way my brain fires. I want to be them, but being them would mean not being me, and that's stupid.
Not everyone is willing to hold hands and hike out into the woods instead of snapping shots from the car window. It takes time to walk through the trees before you get to your destination and more effort than the general populace is willing to invest. What comes out of my brain is often directionless and labyrinthine, but at the end we step out at a new place, together.
Yeah, I know. I have no clue what that means either.