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. 🙂
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.
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.
Picture attribution: Photo, Loving Earth, Some rights reserved by Loving Earth. Copyright belongs to the creator. Use of this picture in no way indicates an affiliation with the creator of the image, nor does it indicate that the creator shares the views reflected by the text.