Blame it on my father, this compulsion to pin words to a page. As a child I hear him typing away in his attic office, creating magic with rhyme.
People laughed at Dad’s humor, repeated his lines or embraced them like long lost friends. Dad blessed others with words of affirmation and encouragement scrawled on whatever was handy. He only resorted to his Remington typewriter when the words were distilled enough to merit fiddling with keys.
The syncopation of words was the soundtrack of my childhood. Dad was a poet and musician at heart. Earning a salary was another matter.
Do you have memories of written words floating through your childhood?
Perhaps your mother read to you as you snuggled, or you father read Shakespeare at the dinner table as mine did.

Carrying the magic of language into my writing life is a useful tool. The sound of words fitting together is why I still read aloud. I cuddle with words. But now, instead of Thurber or Dickens who graced my early years, I also read my own writing. Hearing them helps me edit and groom my thoughts. Poetry, a short story, or the two thousand words a day I added on my newest novel, has me reciting as light fades to shadows.
And I have a willing accomplice. My stalwart husband who laughs at the appropriate times and raises a sculpted eyebrow for a misplaced modifier.


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