When I was twelve, I lived in a tenement in the inner city of St. Louis, Missouri, where I would lean out a third story window at night, dreaming of writing like T.S. Eliot. At twelve, I was ironing my mother's starched, white cotton uniform every blessed day, but it did not once occur to me that ironing could be the subject of literature. Literature was made by upper class men, writing their views of the human experience. And I wanted desperately to sound like them, so I could make art, too. But what I was taught was a lie.
Art belongs to the people.
You can write as powerfully as you talk to your closest friend. If you are safe enough. Many of us talk around the supper table, tell stories, jokes, repeat what happened at the office, and never know we are creating fictions, dialogue, suspense, climax. If you can talk, not being able to write is a learned disability. It is almost always the result of scar tissue, of disbelief in yourself accumulated as a result of unhelpful responses when you have tried to write.