It's no secret. I love words.
It's all my mom's fault. She loved words, too. She was an avid crossword puzzler. Worked on them to her dying day. She had a great vocabulary and encouraged her eleven kids to develop an excellent word set of their own. She loved Scrabble. It was a big deal the first time I ever beat her at that game. Mom gave me the gift of words.
I love the nuances words can bestow. One of the least favorite phrases ever thrown in my direction came from a psychiatrist who told me, "Oh, it's all just semantics." As if to say ... if he tells me one thing it means exactly the same as another and I ought not be so sensitive to the words he chose to use. Who cares about connotation?
Uh, no. I don't believe that. Word choice does matter.
I enjoy poetry (the reading and the writing).
I enjoy novels (especially those with excellent character development).
I enjoy essays (my daughters are fairly gifted at these).
I love sung words, lyrics. I love the word lyric.
I love whispered words, confidential secret sharings (are there any other kind?) and inside jokes.
I love word play. My sweet husband gets the gold medal in this category.
Now and then, I even enjoy dirty words (if blurted in an appropriate context). Naughty can be fun!
My favorite words? Those written in thoughtful, personal letters. Those that allow the writer to reveal himself to the reader. Those that were chosen carefully, crafted creatively, edited (if not over-edited), and delivered.
Some of my sweetest friends became my sweetest friends through the written word ... where they allowed their souls to be half revealed, half concealed. Those letters are tucked away, in safekeeping to enjoy again another day. Letters, as jewels. Moments of revealed confidence frozen in time.
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