Writing - the sickness

Words with teeth, that’s the idea. You want an opening line that grabs people by the collar like an over-aggressive lap dancer, that bubbles with thought and depth, and sizzles with verisimilitude, but don’t use the word verisimilitude… makes people think too hard. People hate to think.

But, how can I think of plots and tales and timelines that sweep off in a swirl of fast-paced action and just enough twist to leave your mind bent, not broken? How can I see the forest when I am in love with the trees? I want to taste their leaves and feel the rough bark under my fingertips… the words. It’s all about the words.

I am what I'll call an verbafeliac. Yes, I just made that up. I am in love with words, phrases, ink, pulp, and the rattling rhythm of a keyboard as I furiously hammer out my thoughts into this glowing box of wires. My analytical mind sees a million symbols to choose from, every word brimming with dual-meanings and connotations, and a billion possible combinations of those symbols equaling an infinite number of meanings, ideas, ways to convey one thought and inspire 50 more. My poetic mind sees woven fabrics that flow with alliterations, rhythmic syllables, vivid imagery, invocations of emotion, and conjurings of enchantment. There is a fluid life to words and they respond to every nudge a writer makes by coming alive and making their own statement.

I’m obsessed with the possibilities.

What makes a person a writer? It isn’t being published or even being read. It’s a sickness; that crawling itch beneath the skin that demands the salve of spelling out internal dialog and imagination. It’s an in-born addiction that simply must be fed. It isn’t a choice or a path, it’s a genetic defect. You can ignore it and slop burgers at Dairy Queen if you want, but it will shrivel your veins like a diabetic who neglects his insulin and eats nothing but ho-hos and pop rocks.

When the sickness is in you, it must be fed. You must write. Write or go mad.
No wonder I’m a frickin loon.