“Some people have a way with words, and other people...oh, uh, not have way.” -Steve Martin

Sometimes, I wish I wasn't a writer. I wish I was a musician. Or a painter. Or an architect. Anything but a wordsmith. Words are hard. They're trite and cliche and everyone uses them. So what's to say that mine are special? What's to say that mine will make a difference? That I can take what I love, make it unique, and create a life out of it. I admire musicians and painters and architects and other artists who don't use words because they move beyond the boundaries of sentences and paragraphs and say things that words cannot. 

Dr. Thurber says that, "All language is metaphoric. We simply agree to let it stand for something."

It is the decision of the reader to make the words more than they are. This terrifies me because I don't know you. And you don't know me. 

So, what I love is actually also what I hate because every time I put pen to paper, it is leaping off this cliff into a sea of crushing critics and meaningless metaphors and obnoxious alliteration only for the purpose of trying to make what I am saying special and I start to babble on knowing that I'm taking it too far but I can't reel myself back in so the words pour forth until I drown in doubt and mistrust and an utter lack of  love for words but I cannot stop I cannot stop I cannot stop doing this thing I do.

I wish I wasn't a writer. But I am.