Words



I carry no writing credentials.

I have no list of literary accomplishments.

I am unpublished, a practitioner without merit.

I studied English at university many, many years ago but never completed a degree. I have an abiding respect for the power of words and an enduring love for the way in which the English language conveys concepts, conditions and emotions.

Of the senses, art is for the eyes, music is for the ears, sculpture for the touch, perfumery and cuisine for their unique senses. But writing has the power to invoke them all. Words are the raw materials of discourse and the writer’s craft. A writer has the entire array on call, on his pallet, at his fingertips. By encompassing them all, writing may be less precise in the detail or execution, but it gains strength by touching, more directly, the essence of the subject in the subject’s mind. It is more intimate. More visceral.

I read to my children before they knew words.

They had books before they had toys.

I hope that this is just one of the legacies that I have left them.

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