Advent Day 12: I’m grateful for writing skills.

http://m.mic.com/articles/98348/science-shows-writers-have-a-serious-advantage-over-the-rest-of-us

Apparently, I’m just that little bit less crazy because I write stuff regularly. We scribes don’t often have stuff to be smug about, so I thought this was rather nice. We also tend to be a bit more sensitive and neurotic, so this was reassuring. And vindication. 🙂

I’m grateful for writing skills.

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I’m grateful for proficiency in English.

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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.

I’m grateful for sunlight.

 

Here comes the sun, oh yeah!

A million zillion songs are written

For the winter-weary sunlight-smitten

To get the pilling woollies out from under their skin.

 

It makes snow glitter like powdered mica.

Melts the ice from roads and roofs and hearts

And brings the warmth to smiles and parts

Of cafes hidden in grey and cold and shadow.

 

The sun transforms cities, citizens, cultures,

Anchors traits and tics in generations of souls.

Makes priorities, decides for us our daily roles,

And shapes everything from laughter to national character.

 

I’m grateful for purpose, and the search for it.

Wheel of fortune

It’s hard to face the world without an aim.
It’s a lot like watching others play the game
As the reserve on the sidelines of the court;
Like you dropped the baton and lost the plot;
The injured ordered to the bench, off the field;
And, helpless for the moment, you must yield
To the harsh and holy hands of fate or god
Or just payment for the ill-thought path you trod.
It feels like standing here with empty hands
When you are used to fighting, taking stands.
It feels like nothing ever did make sense;
The empty weight of meaning feels immense.
It feels like seeing things for what they are
Far too late; now the vision leaves a scar
and little else.

So we seek…

And the seekers become scribes and glimpse the strings
That pull our hearts and souls in place, and run rings
Around our ribs; the things that make us tick and talk
And hope and pine and yearn in vain or faith, or walk
The earth to find or make our meaning from the space
That yawns between the gift of purposeful grace
And the despair of an indifferent god or godless world.
The scribes will write and chart the ways as they unfurl,
In scattered black and burnished embers on the ground
For the stumbling and the lost, in darkness, to be found,
And light the way.


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