About This Wordworld

I've been thinking of a few delicious things I want to write about ... and thinking about why writers write anything anyway and what the hell are we trying to do anyway?

What's with this urge to show people your world? What's with this urge to show people all the strange things we see, from our unique perspective, with our own special words. Is it a fetish, the way we chase words, seduce them, hug them, slip them in our pockets, stroke them, pet these little pets, smooth their silky bodies, calm them, think we can own them? They are feral. How dare we possess them.

We are weird with words, we wild wordwomen and wordmen. We are picking up words on the boulevards in the late afternoon, fetching them in public places, in grassy parks at the crepuscular dusk, we are catching them like lightning bugs in jars, we poke holes in the metal lids to give them some oxygen, we don't want them dying on us. We want to keep words alive. We want to open our two clasped hands and let them fly out in a burst, right into your face. They have jeweled wings, encrusted with hushed sibilants, cunning consonants and liquidy splashy vowels. Papillon mariposa Schmetterling vlinder borboleta butterfly better fly free.