It’s a cliche, I’m sure, that most writers love words, grew up with them, abated loneliness with them and/or found refuge or survival in them. It’s a cliche that they share with other people who do things like paint, draw, dance and make music: disappearing into their medium, their art, especially when the vicissitudes and hypocrisies and downright absurdity of life came up against their sensitive dispositions.
But the thing that makes me love writing is playing with words, how others play with words, the shivery deliciousness of words arranged in a phrase that either pierces you right in the heart, or paints a blooming picture in your head, or introduces you to your new literary BFF, or spins something delightfully about its head, or just. Sounds. Beautiful. Like golden liquid sunlight.
I am so grateful I know the English language enough to love it deeply, to play with it and dance with it and hear it.
Also, there are professional benefits to being a grammar nazi. 🙂
Text in the picture is from a Catherynne M. Valente’s book, one of the Fairyland series.