I am a writer. I was a chemical engineer in a former life, but I’ve left that behind to engineer words instead. I am a Wordsmith. I love words. Words are the tools of my trade, so I respect them and strive to use them with precision. Sometimes. But even more, I love to play with them: bend them, stretch them, tie them into new shapes. I play with them like a tennis ball—maybe bouncing one around on my racket gently to get the feel of it, then watching it closely as I toss it up high before slamming it across the net. I love to wait for its return; how will it come back to me? With surprise? Or confusion? Laughter, or respect? Will I have aced my opponent with the final word?
Not every volley of words with a friend is a competition; sometimes it is a connection. Sometimes I am alone with the ball. I hit it back and forth, bouncing it off whatever is near, rolling it around or pounding it to the ground. I add spin. Backhand. How many ways can I hit it?
Words give meaning to things. Or change their meaning. Or suck the meaning out of them. When there are no words, I create them. I am a Wordsmith.
When I write for others I am shackled by the discipline required to say what others mean. I can do this. I can use my tools precisely. When I write for myself I am without constraint. My brain is in free-fall; the words take control. Or not. Sometimes there is no control. Only the words. This is who I am.
