Enamored with Words


Lit by Alegria Imperial on 06/22/07

Writing for me is as inexorable as breathing, but I honestly don't know why I write. It has always been what I do. I've never really sat down to think about it. When I sit down to mull over something or muse about anything, I end up writing about it.

I don't even know when I write. Most times, my thoughts skitter in a space that I imagine is paper. For example, a snowfall isn't a snowfall for me until snowflakes dance on a blank page and pile up like a bale of tulle for a bridal train. When I see autumn leaves, they turn into bits of rainbows and splinters of old suns. Spring is not rain until rain falls on my keyboard, skeins of silk to drape a queen. When I have transformed images I see or hear or touch into living things on paper, then, only then, do I know the writing has taken over.

Words are things, thoughts, and feelings for me, not often the other way around. And these are not always the startling so-called figures of speech, but often, simple words. For example, the word "sad" first appears out of a haze as a droopy figure, then as a puffy face engorged with tears. And the usual closing, used by friends in the mail, "warm regards," touches me like a hug.

I guess I write because I'm enamored with words, and images constantly haunt me to become words.

Published in Pen in Hand, a newsletter of the Maryland Writers Association.


This piece by Alegria Imperial was published in Pen in Hand, a newsletter of the Maryland Writers Association.



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