The Writer's Block

So, this is my first post. I have no idea how to format this note or anything like that, so I just want critique. Not on grammar or spelling, trust me, I know it needs fixing. And I plan on expanding this story, but for right now it's just a couple paragraphs. Please let me know what you think! =) Thanks!

"So," she asked, "why do you write?"

He looked up from the dish rag in his hands. He gave a short laugh and glanced back at the cloth in his hands.

"My family," he sighed, "is...talent. Pure talent. My sister is a dancer. She took ballet ever since she could walk. She lives in the dance studio, and it's beautiful, because you can just turn on the radio and she has these graceful movements that just come to her, and she points, and leaps, and makes everyone around her feel awkward and clumsy and dumb. And when you watch her dance, it's like she's telling this story. She's so expressive. She just flows and twirls and the music just fits with everything she does...it's breathtaking." He stopped. He threw the dish rag on to the counter and fumbled to the table where she sat.

"And my brother," he said, half laughing, as he lowered himself into the kitchen chair, "was classically trained in music. Mostly piano. But he just has this unbelieveable ability to pick up any insturment and just play. He's this genius, and you feel absolutley ridiculous trying to sing or play anything in front of him, because he's so good. I mean, his ears are like these scientific radios, that can pick out any disturbance in the frequencies. Just watching him play piano, his fingers are flying all over the keys and his eyes are closed, and everything kind of makes sense for him. Like his life is just this giant book of sheet music and the more he plays, the more it just works for him."

He stopped, shaking his head in wonder. She was silent, as if anything she would add to the conversation would take away from it's meaning.

"And I was just the younger brother. My parents were great though, they took me to lessons, and provided all these opportunities, but I was just inept. I tried guitar for a while. I was even in this punk band in high school. We were called "The Bleeding Hearts". I don't think we ever played though...we mostly just wrote lyrics about how horrible out lives were and that no girls liked us. Then I thought I'd like to try art. And I was in to it for a while, I visited museums and read books. Then I tried creating. And that is a completely different art than learning about it," He paused, changing his direction, "I was okay in school. I don't think I ever failed a class. But I loved English. I found a joy in creating with my words. I couldn't flow through a room in pointe shoes, but I could tell someone how beautiful it was. I couldn't play a painfully brilliant melody on piano, but I could compose the sound of one with my words. I couldn't form any kind of art that was pleasing to the eyes, but I could paint a picture with my words. And that," he said, "is the completely true and painfully cliche reason I became a writer."