Really writing? Hannibal Lecture, to love the villain

The difference between 'writing' and writing?

I have in mind a person such as Hannibal Lecture, his character had a brilliant mind for music, visual art, literature and language. His intellect, boundless. Although he was murderous, a villain, the author made me love his mind. The writing, nor the story itself, may be considered great or even comparable, but the author made me admire, and even wish I had known, a hate worthy character. This is a writer worthy of applaud.

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The difference between 'writing' and writing?

She ran across the field stopping at the edge of the pond. She lay in the cool grass and felt the need to free herself, become one with nature.

~OR~

The sweet scent of roses drifted to her on the warm spring breeze moments before the vendor's small cart came into view. The brilliant red, yellow and pink bouquets imprinted themselves in her mind and she continued her leisurely walk. Nothing could spoil the beauty of a day so bright and clear. The air was light and fresh, newly washed from the evening's gentle rain. Even the bird's cheerful songs seemed more vibrant. The sky had parted it's billowy white clouds showing a blue so splendid that even a master of the arts could not portray it's beauty. It's depth and expanse caused her to hesitate, ponder it's infinity.
She drew a deep breath, feeling healthy and young, painless and free to move her body without limit. She spread her arms wide and closed her eyes. She began to turn, slowly circling herself. Feeling so peaceful, so free, she would not hold back the need to run and skip in the grassy field. She ran, like a child at play, her arms and legs flailing as they may, stopping at the edge of the pond. She lay herself in the moist grass, feeling the blades touch her bear arms and legs, each small stone pressing into her back. She became sensitive to the clothing that bound her. The straps of her lace bra, holding her high and close, and the socks and shoes holding her small feet with firm gentle pressure. They became a burden and she took them from her body. The pins in her hair laying against her head were removed and tossed aside like shackles from a slave. The peaceful harmony became an urgent need to be wild and free. She tore at her shirt, her need turning to frenzy.

~~~~I believe the greatness of the work is somewhat dependant upon the space in which it must fit.
(So, where do I start writing and how much room am I alowd to take up?)
LOL!