Words, words, words.
Shakespeare knew. He knew the power of language. It’s a power that is overwhelming, that can shape lives and leave you laughing or weeping over a simple turn of phrase. It’s a power that has infinite possibilities.
I’ve been fascinated with that power since I first learned the alphabet. I have in my possession a story-about a unicorn, of course-that I wrote when I was in kindergarten. It isn’t anything particularly unique, or noteworthy, but it’s a reminder that even then I was exploring the incredible idea that words can do anything. Entire worlds and the people that filled them were at my fingertips, if I would only just pick up a pencil and prove their existence. My imagination was my playground, and each sentence I wrote was a monkey-bar by which I could swing into the next adventure.
And it’s still true. Simply put, I’m an addict. I’ve tried to imagine a life in which I never wrote again in any form and come up short. There’s a rush in knowing that you can shape someone’s perceptions and expectations, that you can convince anyone of anything, that you can make a person feel exactly what you want them to-just as long as you have the right words.
So I write.
I’ve experienced other art. I play the clarinet. The way that I feel when I’m surrounded by music is incredible. A simple melody can be full of emotion, and being part of that…it’s indescribable. But. It isn’t mine. It’s realizing someone else’s dream, some genius composer either long dead or far away. Amazing as it is to be caught up in the notes and rhythms of a masterpiece, it doesn’t compare to creating my own masterpiece. Maybe that’s being a little too generous with my abilities-who am I to judge?-but the fact of the matter is that my symphony will be in words.
Every story that I have written, from childhood to this very moment (and hopefully on into the future) has been an exercise of joy in imagination. Not all of them have been the most creative, but to my memory there is not a one of them that didn’t carry a little spark of joy or excitement with its inception. Even the challenges I embrace for pushing me to the limits of what I am capable of accomplishing with only a scrawl of letters on a page or a screen. My daydreams in class are more likely to include the next events of my latest project than the cute guy a few rows over-because once inspiration hits me, it’s inescapable. Not that I would want to escape it.
I’m not defined by what I do. Who I am outside the written word is a spacey, kind of klutzy and pretty average college student without a major. I prefer listening to people over speaking out in a large group, so I come off as a little shy. I’m an unabashed nerd-fantasy books, sci-fi shows, Dungeons & Dragons and all. The outside world knows me best for my bone-crushing hugs; I’m a firm believer that hugging-that physical contact in general-is the best possible way to show affection. I appreciate the cheerfulness and optimism that people seem to see in me. But in spite of all this, there are times that I want to broadcast to the world: I am a writer; if you have not read what I am capable of creating, if you have not seen me where I truly shine, then how can you know me?
Here I lay before you my talent, my passion, the thing that I can feel confident bringing into the world for all to see. These are my words.
