I cannot remember exactly when I began to write. I have always loved to read, an indespensible discipline for one who writes. It is by experiencing the ebb and flow of the words and thoughts and sentences of others that I find my own rhythm.
Do writers really understand the joy and excitement and knowledge they bring to life with each carefully, or casually chosen word? Perhaps, but I know I write because I must. There is in inner compelling that I rarely understand, but follow nonetheless. Within that drive to put words on paper, I sometimes picture an audience that will be moved or changed by my words, but I must confess that often I do not take them into account at all.
Are other writers like that? Do they write for the sheer joy of the thing? Do they find the pacing, the flow, the preciseness of language, the melody of the piece, as it were, leads to the sheer fun of putting thoughts into words and putting words onto paper?
I think probably they do. There is such satisfaction in the task itself that I imagine others, too, delight in the process. Actually, I am often surprised when people read my joyfully written words and tell me they have been enriched by them. I am amazed at their comments, surprised that such effects would be the result of my words.
I love to write. I love to read what others have written. I love words and the meaning behind a collection of words. The miracle of taking the intangible and making it tangible still leaves me in awe of the raw power found in a well-written article or book. The power of the pen, indeed.
You can use your hands to pick up a pen and form words that convey a meaning. But, when you add thoughtfulness to those words you become a craftsman. And even more amazing, when you use your hands and your mind and your heart to write, then you become an artist.