A Word About Words

For as long as I can remember I have loved words. The sound as they dance gracefully through a piece of music, the shape as they wind playfully into my imagination. I love their taste and feel as I have written and told stories of my very own. For as long as I have been a reader I have also been a writer. For every book seen in my back pack at school, there were also a number of  unseen volumes carried in my head. Worlds I longed to create and stories I yearned to tell. Each time I read something of someone else’s creation, my own desire to create and explore was reignited. I was the child all through school who exhausted her teachers with lengthy prose. While other students struggled to fill a page, I struggled to not fill pages. In my high school years when everyone else had long finished the standard writing test, I alone remained with the teacher struggling to fit a novella into the cramped green lines of a standardized test page.

When I was young it really was all about the excitement. As avid readers themselves, my parents spared no time at all getting me acquainted with the magic of, “The Story.” As a child my mother would take me to volunteer at the library, our trips always resulting in bringing home many more books for ourselves than we had pulled for other patrons. I lived and breathed for books. I loved everything about them. I loved looking at the pictures that described the words. I loved reading aloud to my family. I loved the crack of the spine in a bookstore, showing that you were the very first person ever to partake of the delicious contents within. The dusty smell that indicated a book well past it’s prime.It amazed me that the right words could take you to an entirely different place. It felt at times like I just couldn’t read enough.  

In the first half of my college career I took a class that changed my world forever. Because of it, for good or ill, I’m afraid I’ve become a bit of a snob. No longer can I pick up any old book and take as much enjoyment as perhaps I once might have. This class taught me there is so much more to a good book than just the plot. Writing can be truly, exquisitely beautiful, and after seeing this I cannot bring myself to read anything that does not meet this standard. It may be the best story in the world but, if the writing style is boring, I find little to no enjoyment in it. Sometimes I feel this is a little harsh. After all, who am I to judge other authors having never actually been one myself? The sad truth though is that I am picky more of necessity than snobbery. Gone are the days when I had nothing to do but visit other imaginary worlds. Any time that I take time to read for pleasure now, I am probably sacrificing something else that I should be doing. Therefore any book I read must be absolutely and unquestionably worth it.

Even with limited time, my love of words and all things literary trickles into other parts of my life. Not being able to study in the library, for example, because I get distracted. At times I use words that others insist looking up in the dictionary because they are absolutely certain I made them up. In the few spare moments of my day, mostly walking, I find myself composing scenes in my head for the book I have yet to write. Even as a graphic design major I find words to be my primary focus.  Finding more joy in fonts than anyone ever should, and wondering what an image might look like entirely composed of words. I am continually amazed at the power that they possess and am determined to wield it myself.