Sometimes, while I'm writing or editing, I let my eyes blur and the words flow together, jumbling into an inky mess. Words are heavy things. Who am I to think I'm strong enough to string together word upon word, phrases and paragraphs and pages? Who am I to think I can create content, meaning?
Wouldn't it be easier to knit?
I feel as though I carry around the weight of all of my words, books written and unwritten, edited and unedited. Some days it's overwhelming. And some days there is nothing better than being the shepherd of words, guiding my little flock of nouns and verbs to become characters, actions, stories.
I love these words, this mess and mass of meaning. Because just as often as I carry them, they seem to carry me.