I am a lover of words.

I’m not much of a talker.  I quip, I debate, I defuse potentially explosive situations at school council meetings.  I talk in my head, a lot … but that doesn’t really count for much.

I am a reader.  I read blogs, magazine articles, books, liner notes, movie credits, letters, cereal boxes and the occasional newspaper.

I am a writer.  Now, don’t worry, all you novelists and journalists and bloggers and such can stop shaking in your boots.  I don’t presume to present myself as a Writer; oh no, I am not capitalized.  I am a writer.  I write.  Some.  Sometimes.

My favourite class in school .. in all levels of schooling that I have attended .. was English or English Literature or CanLit.  I could read and write all day back then.  I didn’t.  I read whatever we had to read and finished it within a week and then waited until the night before the essay or assignment was due to start writing.  It worked for me.  I wrote because I had to.  Those other nights, after I had finished the book and should have been outlining my essay and fleshing it out and taking notes for my bibliography, I was more likely to be reading something else:  another novel; a biography; Tiger Beat magazine; the liner notes from “Band on the Run,” while lying on the bedroom floor with a speaker on either side of my head.  I don’t think I ever got less than a B+ on any assignment that involved a piece of writing.

In my “real-world” work the most I would ever write were letters.  They were good.  Letters of intent, complaint letters, replies to complaint letters, contract or agreement letters.  It wasn’t really my job to write letters, I’m just the one that everyone came to for that.  Now, as a sahM, most of my writing is still in the form of letters.  I write grovelling letters because my coupons have expired.  I write complaint letters because the ‘cheese’ in our cheese & crackers snacks is oozing out of the packaging or our peanut butter freshness seals have holes in them.  I write satisfied consumer letters.  I write fundraising request letters for BoyGenius’ school.  These letters don’t get me much … wait, that’s not right … they get me new coupons, free peanut butter, a better cell phone rate and oodles of donations.  That’s some satisfaction, right?

They don’t satisfy what needs satisfying, though.  That writing doesn’t satisfy my soul.  What satisfies my soul, keeps me from exploding is the writing that I do for me.  Poetry, random thoughts, love letters, comments, private blog posts; those are the things that satisfy my soul.  The writing that comes from the vibrating inside of me.  The writing that has to come out, that flows from my core up through my fingertips and onto the keyboard or into the pen and out onto the page.  Those words, those are the words that I love most of all.  Those are the words that soothe me, calm me, move me.  Those are the words that do the same for their recipients, if there are any.  Those are the words that I don’t necessarily want anyone to see but that I need to be read.  Those are the words that can either heal or do the most damage.  Those are the words that sneak back inside your soul and hurt you or make your spirit sing.

Sometimes it sucks being a writer. Sometimes it doesn’t.

Either way, I remain a lover of words.

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