Like most writers, I like words. I say most because I can’t speak for all writers. There are probably writers out there who hate words in the same way that there are probably architects out there who hate brick. Though… you could always construct a building with another material, and it’s very difficult to write a book without words. Though not impossible.
I was reading Liane Moriarty’s The Hypnotist’s Love Story (which I said I wasn’t going to read because I don’t like the topic of stalking, and yet here I am, reading it) and on page 366 she writes,
She actually didn’t want him to speak about it. Words would just tangle things up further and make them feel worse. How strange. She had always thought words were the answer to everything; after all, she treated people with nothing but words.
I paused after reading that, and then wrote it down to remember it, trying to think of a time when things were made worse by putting it into words. And I couldn’t come up with a single time. Sure, there were words I would have rather never have heard, but the reality is that the feeling or the action would have still existed even if I didn’t know about them. Even if it wasn’t told to me.
I couldn’t think of a single time when putting something into words made the problem worse rather than make it more manageable. Words contain the big, messy ideas; contain as in the sense of container. Words box them in so they don’t ooze all over life. Few things really make sense to me or feel the proper size until I’ve put them into words.
I don’t know… can you think of a time when words weren’t the solution; when talking or writing things out made things worse instead of help?
Look at this… a tiny post… just a hair too long to be a proper #MicroblogMonday post. Though you can be certain that I’m working on tomorrow’s #MicroblogMonday post before I go to sleep tonight. Are you?