It’s in the dark where words are found. They run from the light where any old fool can pick through them. They like to be discovered and manipulated. They like to manipulate. The relationship between the writer and the words is symbiotic: a mutual benefit between the user and the used. Which is the used is up for debate. The struggle is real.
And yet, writers continually allow themselves to be tortured by the need to seek and find the most elusive words. I often think of them, those words, as imps. But when coerced, when manipulated by the craftiest hands, they are beautiful. I fear the challenge and yearn for it all the same. More often than not, the words best me. Occasionally I win. But the harder the struggle and rarer the victory, the sweeter the joy. Like a drug, the accomplishment of good writing sends shockwaves through my veins. Such a silly thing, really, pining for fleeting moments of joy found in arranging funny symbols into anything remotely provocative to the senses.
What is it like to master the art? I suppose it’s best I never find out. My life would cease to exist in the real world if I do, and I’m told that I’m needed there.
Another Writer, Another Blog 