Why, I occasionally wonder, do I drag myself to my keyboard at the end of a truly exhausting day and begin to type? Why not choose a bath or even some sleep? There is a simple answer to this.
I love words. I always have. I literally cannot remember a time when I wasn’t fascinated by language, by reading and by writing. So much of my life has been defined by this love, my choice of study and occupation, where I lived, even who I loved. I may seem to be overstating but it is true, my love of words is at the heart of who I am.
Writing places me on a continuum with people, past and present, who are related to me through our shared language. But I think what pleases me the most about the writing process is the way the right word can capture a thought from deep within myself, liberating it to live free in the world. It takes flight and may, if I am lucky, make contact with another mind or heart. Behind it, a delicate thread can be traced back to me.
Each shout of triumph (look at what I made!) or wail of woe (such an awful day) has the chance to be heard, has the chance to be real in the three dimensional world. It takes on an existence beyond me, forming a web between me and others who are strangers to me but who I have, in some way, touched. I reach out my hand to the world and, through the words that spill from the tips of my fingers and the words that are devoured by my eyes, I feel the ephemeral brush of other lives. When there are words, I know I am not alone.