by Patricia Tatum

Created on: September 05, 2009

So many beautiful words have been written about the beauty of the written word, I marvel at my own audacity to add my own words, written as well. Beautiful? One can only hope. Honest? Most assuredly. This is why I write.

"To discover a wordsmith who can cause me to catch my breath in awe the way a master magician can hold his audience with the simplest of tricks..."

My own observation, in a paper arguing the finer points of critical interpretation. At that time, I did not consider myself a writer. I was (and still am) a first class, champion reader. I am legend among friends, family and associates, not only for the sheer volume of volumes I consume, but for the many ways reading enhances my day to day existence. I still remember how to spell "tintinnabulation" (and use it in a sentence). Not only can I finish the daily crossword in about ten minutes, I can also kick butt on Jeopardy. I would consider becoming a contestant if I didn't have such an aversion to public appearances. I expect the two or three straight shots of tequila (washed down with a couple of margaritas) that I would require in order to face a television audience would give Alex Trebek apoplexy.

Ah, but I digress.

Let us return to the subject at hand - why I write. I blame it on the written word, the well-crafted story - each word chosen for its feel, its texture, its taste on the tongue. A few deceptively simple words carefully strung together to create a strand of pearls, or one powerful word demanding the limelight. A lucky find under a pile of discarded words and phrases, some to be revisited for another paragraph or story; some to be discovered, unappreciated and unused, by a hopeful scribe digging for treasure in the trash. Placing words just...so, then rearranging them as quickly as a purveyor of the classic shell game, hoping that they will take on a new and brighter meaning. Sighing, whining, cursing, shouting, then rearranging again until either lightning strikes or the words are tossed from the page onto the discard pile.

Consider this sentence: "The paradox in how this vision was realized is the juxtaposition of traditional rigid structure and procedures with forward thinking concepts, including: considering employees as partners, open door policies and a sense of egalitarianism."

Writing what was a rather yawn-inspiring paper on how the principles of management were used by a large company in a historical context, a jumble of words arranged themselves in the form of a sentence. That sentence took my breath away, even though I wrote it. A few paragraphs later, I was drawn back to it. Again. And again. Repeatedly. The message itself is as dry and business-like as a tax auditor. Focus not on the intent, but on the words themselves, and it is a raucous mouthful of luscious syllables, a mental tintinnabulation of alphabet soup (told you I could use it in a sentence!).

I read for my enjoyment, my enlightenment, my edification. I write for my spirit, my soul. I analyze, criticize, interpret. All the while, I keep my mind open to the single glorious word that is set high on a pedestal, to the phrase that balances delicately and precariously between joy and pain, to the paragraph that grabs you by the ears and commands you to LISTEN! I speak the words aloud; roll them around on my tongue. I turn them around in my mind like a kaleidoscope and see what kind of colorful images they produce. I saturate my being and wrap my soul in them. I let the images fill my inkwell and spill out of my pen; I let them overflow. Then I share them with anyone who will listen.

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