When asked why they write, many authors and poets start talking about how they either hear voices in their head or how they love the language.
I can relate to the ones who hear voices in their head (and I’m so grateful to know I’m not the only one). Trying to capture the random bits of story that fly through my head sometimes can be tricky. As much as I’d love to have a way to record the idea electronically, I keep notebooks stashed around my room and go bag for quick capture. Even with those, characters often deliver bits of dialogue or introduce themselves when I’m not in a position to write it down, and then I have to repeat the information to myself over and over until I get to one of my notebooks.
While the ones who hear voices make sense to me, the ones who extemporize for hours on end about their love for words don’t. I’ve read interviews where authors go on about loving how words roll around in their mouth and being obsessed with language. Some of them talk about the texture or rhythm of language. For me, words are a tool. I don’t think much about them beyond trying to get my point across.
For a while, I thought I wasn’t a true writer because while I hear flashes of characters in my head, I don’t have this odd obsession with words. I don’t have a favorite word. I don’t compare words with wine or truffles. I started thinking I don’t care about words at all.
Except I do. I may not be fascinated by the feel, texture, rhythm of words, but I love learning about etymologies. I enjoy finding out where a word or phrase came from, and using that to help me down the road. I use these etymologies when I’m talking with international friends or teaching my students (more and more of whom are international) to help them better understand our idiomatic language.
I figure that’s close enough to an odd obsession with language to allow me to say I’m a “true writer”.






