If a picture really is worth a thousand words, how would we know? Without words to describe its worth, would said picture really have value at all?
So, I’m a wordophile. Once I started noticing the power and beauty of words—their sounds and looks and relationships to one another— I was compelled to collect them like some people amass figurines or stamps. Collecting words is just something I do. I see one I like and have to make it mine. I claim ownership by scribbling my find on a piece of paper then tacking it to the wall, my shrine showcasing each piece in the display. When I stumble over, say, “fissiparous,” its shiny newness glints at me even as I yearn to examine it like a unique specimen I’ve never before encountered. “Impecunious,” “titivate,” and “contretemps” beckon me from my office walls.
My love affair with words is not limited to their ethereal and spiritual and metaphorical value. I like “bad words,” too. A lot. In each curse lives the same powerful beauty that inhabits an ugly child—so hideous as to be eerily attractive. And think of all the images that jump to mind when someone shouts, “Fuck!” Words describing other words are amazingly satisfying, even if what they describe is considered naughty. For example: “profanity,” “oaths,” “vows,” “swears”…
That language continues to change is inspiring. “Fax” is in the dictionary. “Google” is a verb. People change. How we communicate should, too. Admittedly, I often take liberties, marrying two or (gasp!) three words into one as my needs dictate. Or creating new ones altogether. I’m allowed to schmoogle as I see fit. I’ve already outed myself as a wordophile, not an academic!
So, my blog is dedicated to words—sometimes I’ll write about them (as I did here), and sometimes I’ll simply write with them. Occasionally my writing is (self-defined) esoteric and whimsical, while other times it’s brash, crass, or just plain “me-ish.” Unapologetically, me.