Words
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I used to think that writing was a luxury. It is not. It is a necessity.
Every morning between four o’clock and four-thirty, I wake up, pour myself a cup of coffee and write. When I’m not writing, I’m reading. When I’m not reading, I’m thinking about what to write.
Sometimes writing comes easily. Sometimes it does not. Sometimes words are effortless. Sometimes I need a machete to hack my way through every syllable and sentence. Not because I can’t think of anything to say, but because I can’t stop thinking about what needs to be said.
It is both a blessing and a curse.
I got this from my father who, by any standard, was one of the most intelligent and gifted people that I have ever known. He could write persuasively on any given subject, then read it back verbatim in Spanish or Italian. Both in written form and spoken word, his ability to turn a phrase was nothing less than mythic. He drew you in and held you. He made you think and feel.
Although his greatest gift, I do believe, was his capacity to love. To make you feel important. To raise your expectations. To find the thing that makes you tick. To feed your self-esteem.
But my father also used to say that silence speaks louder than words. That often what you do not say, tells more than what you’ve said. That, convenient or intentional, there is meaning in the silence. A clever lie. A hidden truth. A sign of self-restraint. A simple act of common sense. A hope. A fear. A prayer.
Malicious or benevolent, silence is intentional.
But this is true of words as well. They have a purpose of their own. They can be as soothing as a warm embrace, or they can cut you like a knife. They are as powerful as weapons, or as gentle as a breeze. They can lift you up, or knock you down, depending on the context. They are hurtful or empowering. They can save, or they can kill. There is a sacred line one should not cross when using certain words.
But this is why I love to write and why I do not sleep. Here I am at 4AM and the words just keep on coming.