writer in progress: me and my word horde

"When I make a word do a lot of work like that," said Humpty Dumpty, "I always pay it extra." -- Through the Looking-Glass, Lewis Carroll

I heard a story once, of a man who became a painter because he loved the smell of paint. And I wonder, did I become a writer because I love words so much? Or do I love words because I'm a writer?

Whichever wins, the chicken or the egg, I dearly love words. I love them for their own little sakes, just as I love them in combinations, in perfect sentences, breathtaking paragraphs, or the massive symphony of the novel.

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Words. Bring 'em on.

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Early in setting up my writing practice, I started reading dictionary pages. It seemed a good way to kick off my writing day--spend some time browsing the tools of the trade, right? After all, words are the bricks and mortar, the notes of my scales and arpeggios, my paints and brushes, my salt and pepper.

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What would a novelist do, if she didn't love words? Or, if she didn't keep plunging in, and finding new ones? Would she end up with a slumping, shambling vocabulary? A kind of lowest-common-denominator familiarity with words?

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Shudder.

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And so I read my dictionary still. It is, after all, the place where the words hang out.

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It's a massive one, collegiate, deluxe. I love the colored little drawings of the coyote, the guppy (male and female), houndstooth check, the oriole, rebec, sugarcane, uncials, a wren... (Speaking of which, have you seen this?? Swoon!)

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So I read, copying down the words that grab my attention, for whatever reason. Maybe they have hopelessly confusing definitions, like this one:

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chance: the assumed impersonal purposeless determiner of unaccountable happenings

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Doesn't that make you laugh? I feel like I grow taller, just reciting it. For a synonym, they simply write: luck.

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On the other side of the spectrum, their definition for gossamer has to be the most beautiful one in the book:

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gossamer: a film of cobwebs floating in air in calm clear weather

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Mmm. Not just a word, a beautiful and complete setting.

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So I write them down, and they keep me company, all these words. I even introduce them to one another, putting them into dozens of different documents. Lists and lists of words, according to whatever theme strikes my fancy. (I know other people do this professionally--like these--but it's so fun, and addicting, to spin off a bunch of DIY word lists...)

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You never know what might happen, getting all these words together. Last year's Nanowrimo novel? I relied almost entirely on my various word lists, just for inspiration.

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And besides, how can I resist? I have a list of colors, things like argentine, bloodred, camel, carroty, damask... Or words that have to do with the land: eddy, firth, freshet, graticule, howe.

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I have two huge lists of words that just have to do with words, or anything literary. And that's where I go to see incunabulum, jape, kern, lexeme, and logology.

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Or occupations. Imagine meeting these people at a party: a martyrologist, nightwalker, oologist, printer's devil, and a quidnunc. Write that conversation, why don't you? I mean, how could you not?

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And then, of course, there's an ever-growing list of words that I love, just to love them. Fabulous things to say, to spell, to try and drop into a sentence. Words like runcible spoon, scapegrace, and sylph. Tenebrific, welkin, or widdershins.

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Witenagemot.

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Zaftig. Zenith. Zephyr...

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Probably, I am a terminal nerd. Probably, I will always be shuffling around in the dictionary, scribbling in the margins as I do, writing those perfect little words on whatever scraps I have nearby.

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But I'm not worried. It doesn't seem like a bad way to spend my time (decennium, ember days, evenfall, gloaming, lobster shift, seedtime, and thenceforth...)