Writing is so cathartic. It is such a creative pursuit. It brings out your innermost emotions, throws them down on paper or screen of an electronic device, morphed into something unrecognisable at times, but making sense to the people who consume this art form.
Writing is the best form of self expression for me; I may be a wordsmith. Even then, I cannot say that I have been writing for as long as I remember. But I can say that for reading. Yes, I have been reading ever since I learnt the alphabet, which of course was when I was but a toddler. At perhaps 5 years of age, I could read three languages. Although I went on to become really proficient in only one-and that serves my purpose quite well, I can still identify with languages.
I worship the written word- and printed, of course. I still love etymology, the nuances of a language, the layers inherent in dialects, words, just words. A well written piece for me is something that has words conveying exactly what needs to be said, without meandering and a seamless flow of thought. As a child, I would read and re-read passages written by the masters to understand their thought process and logic. Why one sentence led to the other? How one paragraph preceded this one? How ideas flowed from one to the other?
Recently, when my local library closed for a few days, I was distraught. There is so much more available to read but I could not bear the thought of not visiting this room full of shelves and shelves of books. It was my weekly fix. I tried to write instead, to take the edge off the waiting for it to reopen but nothing compares to flipping yellowing pages, musty smelling and crinkly to touch.
Reading, reading and reading. Any day over writing!