I had someone tell me once that my writing and my beadwork seemed to be along the same lines– everything meticulously chosen and ordered.  Well, first of all, that’s an amazing compliment and I definitely took it to heart   Second, well, it’s amazing, but I didn’t quite believe it.
For me personally, writing is this weird, ecstatic rolling in paint and flinging myself against the wall experience, whereas beading is rhythmic, mathematical and quiet.  Neither one is better’ than the other.  They’re just different.  I can definitely enjoy either one, just the same way that either one can make me want to go gnash my teeth on the bones of an Old One in frustration. 
If You Write, This Is What Beading Is Like
You draw out as many lines and details as you can, carefully surmising the stitches you will use– you’ll have to change at least one of them when you get there, but before you begin you must have a plan.  See, when you bead, you must choose all of your components and beads ahead of time, selecting from a rainbow of textures, colors and finishes which still possibly doesn’t contain exactly what you need.  You may have to improvise or swap your choices out to get what you want.  Oh, and you’re going to have to spend money before you start, which kind of stinks.  It’ll all be worth it in the end.  
You will count and measure and rip, rip, rip you stitches out.  For everything you make, there is only one right bead for each spot, even if it’s a vastly asymmetrical free-form piece.  You will learn which bead is perfect as you work, mostly by picking the wrong ones over and over again.  The more your bead, the more you’ll come to understand tension and color and how to fake with the thread that you know exactly what you’re doing.  (Fun fact, you never will.)
Nothing you make will be perfect, but strangers will still look at it and ask how long it took, how you had the patience to do the thing.  You won’t quite know how to answer, but your your pride will glimmer in your eyes, as well it should.  
If You Bead, Writing Is Like This.
You draw out as many plot points and characters as you can, carefully surmising the themes you will use– you’ll have to change at least one of some aspect of the story when you get to it, but before you begin you must have a plan (or something that superficially resembles a plan).  See, when you write, you can literally do anything you want, and that’s most of the problem.  If you can do anything, how do you pick? I mean, you get to choose from an infinite variety of techniques, genres, moods, and styles which possibly still don’t contain exactly what you need.   You may have to improvise or swap your choices out to get what you want.  Oh, and you don’t have to pay anything to anyone before you start.  Words are free.
You will write and rewrite and rip, rip, rip you words out.  For everything you write, there is only one perfect word for each spot, even if it’s a vastly experimental free-form piece.  You will learn which word is right as you work, mostly by picking the wrong ones over and over again.  The more your write, the more you’ll come to understand implication and explication and how to fake with the syntax that you know exactly what you’re doing.  (Fun fact, you never will.)
Nothing you write will be perfect, but strangers will still look at it and ask how long it took, how you had the patience to do the thing.  You won’t quite know how to answer, but your your pride will glimmer in your eyes, as well it should.  
…OK, actually I think person may have been right after all.