Words matter. When you bring words from the seat of your subconscious, in the form of memories or imagination, poetry or lyrics, prayers or pleas… when you bring these things into the world, you build something.
You brought words into the world and as long as someone keeps them, they exist. And it doesn’t matter if they represent fact or fiction, or even if they’re grammatically correct. They matter because you loved the thoughts enough to write them down, to take them from the places in your brain where all things reside to a place of potential permanence. And if you don’t delete them, or you give them to someone else and that person never deletes them, then they live infinitely. And that’s powerful. Even if every word written is its own little lie.
There’s a reason William Shakespeare wrote that the pen is mightier than the sword. A sword can kill a person only once. Words written poetically can kill a person over and over again, can inflict pain in the memory of their composure, can make a person crumple when they think about the writer’s intent.
As an author, every word I write holds meaning for me, and I send it out into the world hoping that in some small way, it’s read by someone and remembered. I regret all the words I destroyed in the past, believing that my words didn’t have anything to say. Truth is, I have lots to say. And I don’t delete my own words anymore, because I mean them.
Words have always meant the world to me, and of all of the things I have done wrong in this life, one of the few things I have done right is mean every word I have ever borne into existence. Cruel or kind, sarcastic or sincere, the words I use are carefully picked to connect my heart and soul to anyone who dares read them, to stitch up my own wounds by sending them out.
I used to care about what people might think of my words. Now I just feel sorry… I feel sorry that most people don’t give much thought to the energy and intent behind their words, that they so complacently abolish structure for convenience with their far-from-correct auto-corrected texts and emails, overusing ugly slang like “cos” and “def”. I feel sorry that a beautiful love letter or poem written on delicate stationery is a thing of history, and that the most poetic words most people will ever leave behind will be the ones on their own gravestone.
It’s not easy, writing enough words to tell a decent story. It’s not easy to put your thoughts on paper and share them with one person, much less the world. Words are a vulnerability, a house we live in, the only thing we have to convey ideas and sentiments silently to another human being and draw pictures for their imagination to see.
