If someone jizzed on a piece of paper and gave it to you, you probably wouldn’t respond with, “Fuck yeah man, that’s awesome!”
Now, let’s say someone had jizzed carefully into a juice carton which he had, at great peril to himself, rescued from Donald Trump Jr.’s recycle bin. And he (I’m assuming it’s a guy here, because of all the jizz) splooged into it not just once but one thousand and forty-seven times. And every spurt was from wanking only to images of Tilda Swinton.
And let’s say he took that jizz and carefully divided it, and colored each pool of spunk with all-vegetable inks he made himself from raspberries and tea and avocados he grew in his backyard. He let the jizz cool just to the point of manipulation, and he molded a time-travel-perfect miniature sculpture of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon in a Tupperware bin.
And let’s say he created a time lapse film of this diorama as it populated with an entirely new array of living organisms. And he recorded all the characteristics of these new species, all their habits and agonies, as they grew self-conscious and discovered sex and death and art. And then the sadistic bastard, after his years of investment, took the Tupperware container outside, into the sunshine, and let the whole world melt. Then he carefully poured what remained onto a piece of paper and gave it to you.
There. That is how writing is different than jizzing onto a piece of paper.