Why do I write? Oh, my friends, we will spend many, many Wednesdays on this endless well of a subject. I do promise, however, to keep this post short and sweet since I’m getting it up late.
I have had a spectacular, lifelong affair with words. My mother is an English teacher. My father has a spectacular voice for reading aloud. They both do, really. They read to me often when I was little. (I would love it if they narrated audiobooks in their spare time, but that’s another discussion for another time.)
I’ve always been fascinated by words. I’ve been in love with that special magic they have. For as long as I can remember, I have loved the way that markings on a page correlate to sounds, which correlate to meanings, and those meanings come to life in a reader’s mind.
I am enamored of all that words can do, from imparting new knowledge to providing an escape into universes our hearts can only dream of otherwise.
This enchantment is wrapped up in those childhood feelings of wonder at how the warm, soft rumble of my Daddy’s voice breathed life into the amazing stories other people created.
I get my love of language as a science from my Mom. She has always been impressively exact with her word choice. She taught me the magic of etymology, among other things.
To sum things up on the first installment of Why I Write Wednesday, let’s just say I was born and bred to live and breathe a love of words.