The words can fall in random fashion. They jerk and stop, sometimes they spill all over the place and make a mess. Words can flow with the grace of pirouetting angels skating on silver ice. They can plunder the heart of a reader with ruthless disregard and sometimes they are painfully backwards with ugly bumps and fumbling meanings.
Words are nothing special and they are the wings of imagination. Everyone uses them, reads them, and writes them. They are common property to crude and elite.
What makes a writer? Does a writer craft them? Control them?
I think a writer sculpts them. For me, there are always too many. Beautiful writing is clean and fast. It moves with muscular grace that is irresistible.
Random thoughts at three eleven a.m. The cat and I are discussing rain, writing and the art of loving what one does.