Let’s start at the very beginning — a very good place to start. In the beginning, there were words. Well, not really words so much as grunts and whoops, but the sentiment is the same. Grunts, whoops, and yes, words are all about communication. Those guttural utterances began an evolution of communication that we are still experiencing. And we aren’t just doing it collectively as a species, but also individually. Each of us began much the same as our ancestors, squawking and crying out to convey our needs and emotions. We learned, over time, to manipulate the muscles of our mouths and throat to create spoken words. We learned the words our society had given to things around us. Actions, places, feelings, desires, the real, and the imagined. The transition from mere sound to weighted words happens in the blink of an eye all to convey meaning and purpose to the world around us and of the world within us.
That’s where I come in. From a young age, I recognized the magic of words. How each one was a piece to a puzzle that, once completed, could reveal a dazzling picture with such detail and nuance that whole worlds could spring to life in my mind as if they were real places I’d been or people I’d met. The small, rickety bookshelf in my room quickly filled with my tiny collection of universes. Imagine being able to survey and select whichever universe you wished to visit. A small gesture of the hand, and it would open to you, invite you inside, and you could fall in and lose yourself in the cosmos created out of nothing, born from someone else’s mind.
I quickly discovered that I didn’t want to be a mere observer of these worlds. No sideline sitting for this girl. No, I wanted to become a Creator. I wanted to learn how to craft a realm of humanity that didn’t exist anywhere else but my consciousness and then pull it from myself and pour it onto a page for someone else to witness.
And so I’ve crept toward that goal, little by little, for most of my life. Sometimes at an agonizing pace when I doubt I moved much at all, and sometimes sprinting so fast I can’t make my fingers, pen, mind move fast enough. I’ve learned so much about the craft of wordsmithing and barely scratched the surface. I know rules, and intimately how to break them. But most of all, I’ve learned how deeply I truly love the act of writing. I love that when I close my eyes and release the floodgates words appear. They tumble out of the recesses of my mind and I rush to find something with which to catch them before they fall through my fingers like a sieve to be lost in puddles of creativity at my feet. Sure, I could still splash in them, but they won’t ever carry the great force of momentum as they did at the start.
I think of this blog as a playground. Not the playground that just popped into your head when you read that, but what a playground really is. Mine has swings and slides and plenty of space to run and jump and play, but hidden in those innocent actions is an exercise of development. Every time I pump my legs and bring that swing up higher than I’ve ever dared before, I learn my limits are beyond what I expected. Each time I practice at the monkey bars and make it one rung further, I’ve stretched my endurance and bolstered my belief in myself. Here, you are watching me play — but you are also watching me grow. There will be triumphs, and there will be failures, but through both – and everything in between – there will undoubtedly be growth. And words. Always words.