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Words; I am in love with them.

There are so many used for words. For a storyteller they are golden hammers and silver nails. To the reader they can be perceived as much as the person reading the words opens up their mind. For example, I was listening to a Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle and obviously it is a wonderful story of the fight between good and evil. But I could tell one of the persons with me was disturbed when she asked me, “and what exactly do you love about this story?” I was talking to someone who told me that when they watched the most recent Harry Potter movie they left the theatre very moved. Because, they explained, anything with a battle of good and evil and morals and immorality and courage and strength can only come from God, because that is the only place those kinds of things come from. She was saying that God could speak through anything. I believe that with my heart.

Books I respect, I read twice. I feel the writer deserves to be appreciated for their sacrifice of writing out of their hearts. Just like each thing that hits you fantastically didn’t just appear; it has been there since the moment it was put by the author. There are so many descriptions that sometimes I read over; yet I feel (and have written about before) that this disrespects the writer who labored over those descriptions. Sometimes words are used in the one-dimensional sense, a horizontal story that simply means what it says. Words are forced into this. This is also what people desire to read, I’m afraid to generalize, because you can predict whets going to happen; you are excited but not surprised. After I read them these stories become to me like a worthless anti-thinking coating that spreads itself across the inside of my mind.

OR words can be used to make a three dimensional story (really no dimensions can hold these stories) that is as deep as it is wide. Why do you think thesauruses were invented? Words can hide such painful double meanings. For example, someone recently told me that they thought I resented them. I looked up resentful in the thesaurus and came up with words like war-like, hateful, malicious, and viperous to name a few. Yeah, maybe I wished that their face were kicked in, but only in my mind.

Oh, the words of this book, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. these words are incredibly used. They are not used; they are borrowed and molded and sculpted and formed by their own free will. He does not use laughed or sad, he uses his own expressions the words have given him. He owns them by their own choice. That is the best kind of writing. I picture it as the author having a conference with the words and he tells them what he plans to do and wants to do and the words loved his idea. And in turn the words themselves told the story back to me the reader, shared those secrets with me, which only words written in such a way could tell. You don’t realize the significance of words until you read another phrase saying the same thing and you hear and soak in the secret and sit back and breathe.

I feel like a cup of hot water that is infused by a teabag; a rare black tea called “extremely loud and incredibly close”.

I’ll take my tea strong; no cream or sugar; straight and bitter and absolutely pure.

I’m not saying I’m sure I can handle it, but that’s not stopping me.