Writing about writing has become so common as to lose meaning, and yet, the origami of that exploration reveals entire new worlds with each new plane, crease, and fold. There are some who can follow every single expected exercise, and yet still manage to surprise. That is the sweet spot that I chase every day. It's more than simply looking for a new way to say something...more than painting pictures with conceptualizations...more than trying to build the better analogy. It is all of those things and none of them.
My background in writing is that I write constantly. I once remarked to a friend that my master work is being written in the air (my cute analogy for commenting on blogs and in social media). But the reality for all writers is that we are never done with the chase. Every day is some new insight, some new fold that reveals some as-yet unexplored plane, and a new frustration that we missed it. Writers are never satisfied. No artist ever is.
The love I found of words began in childhood with long haunts in the school and public libraries, hours locked in my bedroom reading and re-reading the same books over and over again, devouring every word, every concept, parsing every sentence, learning that my voice could change from day to day, embody more than my own thoughts, my own voice, and capture the thoughts and voices of others, real or imagined. Character, place, and time became obsessions. This was when I knew I was a writer. I think I was 10 at the time.
Fast forward several years past seminary (eek!) and past a brief flirtation with a music career, and all the things that I put on hold so that I could make a meager living in one corporate shell after another, writing was the secret hobby I didn't share. When social media became available, I opened those vaults and let a few friends peer inside. The response astounded me--I'd never expected such praise, let alone the universal acceptance of my work, my voice. The world changed.