I love writing. I love the sight of words on a page. Words are beautiful, musical, and the fact that I am able to create them myself fills me with awe. I feel a sense of responsibility coupled with deep respect for the fact that I am capable of grouping these strange symbols together to create something.
Writing is awesome. [I do not use the word ‘awesome’ in the youthful slang of today, I say it in it’s truest sense: writing inspires awe.] Writing makes me feel as though I am making some sort of contribution to the world, though the world may never know it.
Writing and reading are, of course, directly related. When I come across a piece of literature beautifully written, reading it is so much more enjoyable than if it’s a mediocre book.
But in writing there is no voice to listen to, no eyes to exchange looks, no movements of the face and hands and body to assist the words. No interruptions are possible, no questions can be answered. There are only these strange shapes as old as Eve and as new as tomorrow’s baby, and to me they are beautiful and glorious.
I love the appearance of words on a page. I love their shape and the patterns they make. I feel them like pebbles in my mouth; I hear them like music in my head. When I write, they are like sculptures in my hand.
Does writing inspire you?