When I was a toddler, I used to scribble in a Websters dictionary. I may as well have been lighting up a five dollar bill for all the scrimping my mother accomplished on a tensile-like family budget whose particulars were scraped pennies, open windows and soup.
From the hard evidence of its yellowed and dogeared pages full of abstract moons and other less decipherable etchings ,she aided and abetted my gentle meaning crimes in the many times over of words gone crayon; the literary entrails having been introduced to the hieroglyphics of a boy whose learning breathed with the eclectic nature of real world devices made possible by matriarchal wherewithal. True thing being, It was a defacement the likes of which only a mother could truly love and understand, and in this instance, accept.
I know it was inside the countless hours of tedium spent playing artist that I found my love of words. As an unwitting observer to the orderly compass of words and their meanings, that’s how I came to more. Because really, words have always been like a printer’s wheel to my brain. I can grab a random word out of the air and stick it into a sentence and for the Godliest of mysterious reasons, it works. My love of words does not mean to say that I am a master of them, because nope. Truth is, I’m simply a dedicated follower of their legend.
Good writing is born out of a need to transplant thoughts into pictures, so I figure that my years spent crawling were years spent well, before I had any blessed idea as to how time done wisely was all about math and carpentry dressed up in soul. All writing, great and small, is based on a promise bought. For me it was those budding steps taken inside a dictionary. Blind to the forest of adjectives for all the learning trees I climbed. The reconnoitering eyes of a babe in search of worlds unknown. Writing is innocence.
Innocence is simply strength in its purest form.