Today, a friend of mine posted this on Facebook:
"Becoming a writer is not a 'career decision' like becoming a doctor or a policeman. You don't choose it so much as get chosen, and once you accept the fact that you're not fit for anything else, you have to be prepared to walk a long, hard road for the rest of your days." ~Paul Auster
Writers often say such things. We're kind of drama queens. But I've never felt like other writers in this regard. Perhaps it's because I never believed I would actually get to be a writer. I consider writing more fun than philosophical imperative. Most likely it's because I'm a second-rate writer to the Asters of the world. (I never could finish his New York Trilogy, but love the likes of J.K. Rowling.)
Rather, these words express my feelings so much better. I like words too. They're odd little things to like so dearly, but there seems to be a fair few of us who do. Why is that? What is it about f-o-u-r little letters that can bring such brava to our hearts?
Words are the perfect meeting of the worlds - at once both material and immaterial, bringing together flesh and mind. The hard clicks of the tongue and the smacking of the lips catching and chewing wispy thoughts that otherwise float away. Words are as ethereal as the wind and as solid as a concrete bench. Words remembered reminisce with us. Other words strike when we're angry. Some whisper when we're sad.
But enough of my words. Here are just a few of the words that I have loved and that come and visit me on cold days like a cup of hot cocoa. I'm sure to remember more words once I've hit publish, so I'll put them in the comments, and please put yours there too.
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
You do not do, you do not do, anymore black shoe.
Einmal wenn ich dich verlier, wirst du schlafen konnen, ohne dass ich wie eine Lindenkrone mich verflustre uber dir?
Thus, though we cannot make our sun stand still, yet we will make him run.
I grow old...I grow old...I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep.
I am glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things, Sam.