a ~ The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

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I’ve always been a writer. Well, not always. I used to be a baby. And for a while I was a ballerina, photographer, mother of 12, cheerleader, astronaut, Olympic equestrian and brain surgeon. But none of those worked out, so I became a writer.

These days I write more than ever and feel less than ever like the kind of writer I always thought I’d be. This isn’t a bad thing, though seeing it written down like that feels daunting and depressing. I like the kind of writing I do these days. I never thought I’d be good at writing newsletters, but I’m not bad. I never thought I could make an interesting real person interesting for other people. I thought I could only make fake people interesting. But the real people I meet and write about seem to maintain their sheen, even in the face of limited word count and the lack of passive voice, which can be very effective yet never quite rises to the level of editorial accomplishment these magazine people are striving for.

I’m not worried. You know what I like about writing? All those words. How they slip together. How they glance off each other. How phrases shift and settle in their space like they were meant for that particular spot.

This is self indulgent, isn’t it? A love to words, made with words. Forgive my sighs of ecstasy.

Equilibrium, defenestrate, solvent, sluice, penultimate, umbrage. These are some of my favorites. And apothecary. I could go on.

I’ve never liked thus. Or moist. Or granular. Poor dears.

Just like numbers, words have their own preferences and personalities. Some words are cranky, some are mysterious, some are way too slutty for my taste. Some taste divine and others smell bitter before they even appear. Some are bland when you need something bland, when your belly is all topsy from a swoony situation and you need to rest your senses. And others have just the right spice for those moments right before blissful disaster.

But corporations call with the promise of money. No fame, no byline, no whispered words of love. But these darn kids don’t come cheap, so I’ll tuck away my tendencies toward flight and stick the words on the page like I’m working with glue and wood. Just wait, though…

About andi

Writer, editor, wrangler of small boys and dogs.

One comment

  1. You are reading my mind again. Also, moist? <>

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