There are times in a writer’s life when she doubts the validity of the choice to write.
Although of course a writer will tell you writing is not a choice. She cannot help but write. She must write. Even if it’s in a stolen few hours late in the evening when everyone else is asleep, or while waiting in the carpool or to distract her in the doctor’s office— a writer writes.
I’ve always been fascinated by words and where they come from. I try to write words that sweep the reader into a story that’s a short escape from everyday life.
Still I can’t help but wonder whether other paths in life are more useful, solid, active, constructive and worthy of praise. Not to mention more lucrative.
In America during the summer of 2016, does writing matter?
What could I write in the aftermath of the Orlando shooting? How could anything I write (on this blog) make a difference or be meaningful? I did a lot of thinking. And a lot of reading to see what others wrote to make some kind of sense out of the senseless.
The more I think, the more I know that writing matters because words matter.
Everyone’s words matter.
Words are powerful.
Words need to be respected for their ability to sway, to lift, to impress, to persuade, to inform, or to transport as well as to embarrass, to bully, to confuse, to shame and to incite.
Words can lift when used to give a much-needed compliment to a perfect stranger.
Words can divide when they are identifiers that seem to give some people permission to hate.
Words can kill when they are repeated by bullies on social media.
Words are important.
Lately, I’ve come to respect words.