Words fascinate me. There are so many to choose from, and we’re not even restricted to a single language. English cherry-picks from dozens of countries, and then there are regional dialects, slang, and my personal favourite, archaic words. The lilt of writing is so brilliant, able to be reshaped into something better, something more poignant, something visceral.
I love the act of writing, both by hand and typing. Handwriting has a messiness to it. A wild abandon, where everything is free-form and unrestrained. The flow of ink from my favourite pens onto the perfect weight paper, the soft skritter-skit the ballpoint makes. Then there’s my fingers dancing over a keyboard, which I can almost convince myself is a type of magic, a song contained in characters on the screen. Typing is effortless, a habitual action. Muscle memory takes my fingers where I need them, and stories pour out.
My little community of writers! As with any interest on this planet, I don’t fit in with every group of fellow authors, but over the course of these last few years, I’ve begun collecting like-minded writing friends who come together to genuinely celebrate victories and successes, commiserate over the trials of our passion, and cheer each other on when another is struggling to draft, edit, or find a way to get their writing into the hands of eager readers. I have unending love for my friends. You are the best.
Telling a story is vicarious. So full of emotion. When you write the scenes which move you, when you are overcome by the experiences associated with being an author, the joy of finishing, the terror of releasing, the devious spark of a new idea which carries you away from the everyday world in a glorious instant of inspiration. It’s existing in a whole other layer of life.