There isn't one
Does anybody ever hate writing? I could write for hours about nothing, though, I suppose that I could talk for hours about nothing and that's all the same. Something about writing, however, compels people to notice what you've "said" (because you didn't technically "say" it, you typed it). Even if all those people do is skim over it, they've processed enough of your writing to understand the main points, the jist of it, if you will. Yet when you're talking, people, conciously or unconciously, ignore you, talk over you, fall into a daze. Written words are much heavier than spoken words. People take prose more seriously than they take speech. Writing is such a lonely activity. No one can help you, no one can keep you company. There's no interaction with anyone else. You write. All they can do is read. Sure, you wanna profread (get it?) my writing? Sure! But you can only do it when I'm finished writing whatever the hell it is I'm writing about. So it's more of a back-and-forth game like Hot Potato than it is interaction. When I'm down writing this, one person may read it. thirty people may read it. I'll never know. Is the probability that others will read this even important to me? I would guess so, since I'm writing it on an Internet blog.
I suppose writing has more seriousness than talking because when you write, there's no immediate influence from a third-party person in your area. That's why text messages are much more personal than actual phone calls. One can carry on a very personal and still private conversation through text messaging even at a party. But one can't carry on a private phone call around a group of 5 people without having to come up with some code word for the phrase "titty-fucked" because we all know those other 5 people in the room would immediately focus their attention on your now-interesting phone call. In writing, you can "say" what you want. There's no immediate argument, there's no immediate "you're an idiot." Sure, if you're a dumbass, others will let you know eventually, but for that glimmer of a moment right when you finish, you're complacent with yourself. Loneliness. Isn't that what everyone's afraid of? Whether they're mature enough to admit to it or not? God knows I'd hate to end up like Kirk van Houten. Divorced. Kid sucks at life. Shitty apartment. Bald. Four fingers on each hand. Yellow. The list goes on.
I can talk to people for hours via typing. Unlike my voice, my fingers don't tire. I'm focused on the computer monitor, therefore there's no other task to steal my attention. If you've ever seen my room, you'd know that there's nothing in my yellow confines that would interest even the most ADD of all ADHD kids. Except maybe the mattress, which makes it look like a strung-out cokehead sleeps here. I got off track, sorry. Just think, if I had been speaking this paragraph aloud, I'm sure the sentence about my bed would have been a ramble that you, as my audience, would have tuned out because it just doesn't matter. After all, who cares about my bed? Apparently I don't, since it just lays there; and you don't because it's not your bed! If you have a serious conversation with me over AIM, words flow from my fingers as if Harry himself cast a lovely Shakespearean hex on them. Sure, I may not be a Cyrano de Bergerac, but I'm damn good with written words. I think because I can type out my original thought, and then backspace and alter it until it sounds just right. Then hit send, and that's what you'll see. In person, my mouth moves way too fast for my brain, I stumble over my words, and/or interference from outside sources ruin the message before it reaches my intended receiver.
Talking is such a more social act than writing.
Why do I feel like I am so good at writing that I shouldn't ever stop? Because listening to others is something that I enjoy and that I do well, and writing is my way of listening to myself. Maybe that's why I hate it. I can't deny to myself, the thoughts that I live with.
But I don't fancy my problems, and that's probably why I don't mind listening to yours.