I love words. I always have. As a child, I devoured Dahl. I buried myself in Blyton. My Grandfather taught me to always keep a dictionary to hand when reading, and to look up every word I didn’t understand. As an 8-year-old, reading my first Dickens, that was every third word. As I grew, the dictionary came out less and less. Today, I have a ridiculous knowledge of words and where they came from. A knowledge of no use except when I read, write or do the odd pub quiz.


I went on to read the Narnias, To Kill A Mockingbird, and Gulliver’s Travels. As a teen, I conquered Conan Doyle, completed the rest of Dickens and was awestruck by Shakespeare. Prose led to prosody and I learned to love Kipling, Tennyson, TS Elliot, and Wilfred Owen. I discovered metre, iambs, trochee, and catalexis. I found the cinquain, quatrain, hyperbole and rhythm. I took delight in writers old and new. Today, you’ll almost always find a book about my person. Because I love words.

In my writing, I try to enjoy words. You’ll see allusions to alliteration. Obscure onomatopoeia. Rhythm building in sentences, slowly, sonorously bringing you to climax. You’ll find, if you look hard, phrases lovingly crafted. Passages painting pictures in your mind. Sometimes in broad brush strokes, sometimes in details microscopic.

Like a good illusion, when things are going right, you’ll just see what I want you to. If I’m writing well, and I sometimes do, you won’t notice the effort poured into every paragraph. The thought over every phrase. The care for each and every sentence.

All because of my love of words.


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