The Power of Words

It's a powerful thing, writing. Words, you see, are the least accurate means of expression. In joy, we lift our arms to meet the sun. In desperation, we clutch and reel and execute dance moves that define the very depths. In painting, we express with strokes and let the eye tell the brain tell the arm: dab the brush in this color.
But writing is complex. That first gut feeling, that sudden so-powerful-it's-painful spine-buckling awareness of something must first be changed into words. Words we know -- the exact ones that say what we mean. Then those words, now rattling in the head, must be turned into other words that are acceptable to our audience, to our editors, judges, readers. If you go there, structure of story must be adhered to. You can, of course, journal with abandon, but if you want to be a selling writer -- and why shouldn't you? -- so many story things must first line up. And be edited and edited and edited again.
The job is private and arduous, brain-wracking, back-breaking and time consuming. But there's nothing else I would rather do. And I've decided to talk about that -- those kinds of thrills -- on these pages. Reader, beware. There's an agony connected with this job, a disconnect from the real world while I make several of my own. There are worries and tears and mental hair-tearing. But there's also the thrill of creating man. Giving him woman. Letting her deflect bullets with her fingertips. Tuck fifty-one clowns into a Volkswagon and send it to Mars where candy bars cost a dime a dozen. Ice cream, there, doesn't melt.
See? Crazyness helps. On with the new book and its secrets, oh so deep and dark. The world will never guess....