When I was writing a story, each word had to be carefully selected. I sampled and savored several options in my mind before delicately making my pick and adding it to the page. Afterwards, I would parse my sentence and see if it left the right taste and flavor in my mouth. If it was too edgy, innocent, delicate, or boring, I took it back to the cutting board and tried again.
If writing was an art form, it was the only art I knew. I knew words. Once written, they were finite and meaningful but open to interpretation. They were just the right level of abstract. But they required a story, and that was the part I found hardest.
They required story in a way that painting did not. They required that you establish enough parameters and character development and input enough transitive clues that your readers could follow you along from beginning to middle to end. With a painting, the accompanying story was written internally, and no two stories were ever the same.
So you can understand that I had a passion for writing from the very beginning. I saw true emotion rise from haunting stories, not melodies. I cried during literary catharsis, but not during an emotional movie. The written and spoken word has always captivated me. Spoken poetry can take root in my heart the way no song or canvas ever has.The strong affection I have for language with all of its idiosyncrasies and intricacies is the reason that I write and will continue to write until I depart. It is my mode of consciousness, and the way I am wired.