I’ve always loved books. Or more specifically words. Words are beautiful things, beyond just a particular assemblage of letters, I see them as little envelopes, packed full of emotion, meaning, or subtexts that add color, flavor, and texture to the world around us. They convey ideas and can build confidence or shatter the soul within our chests.
I’d sometimes get caught up on a particular word, admiring how it felt in both temperature, mouthfeel, definition in relation to.. its.. “it-ness.” Words like “Powerhouse,” “Juxtaposition,” or “Hatred.” Playing with them, said fast, said slow, said with different emphasis on each syllable. Maybe it was first adult themed manifestation of my own ADHD? Who knows. But it was there. This eventually expanded a bit beyond just the words themselves.
A cleverly turned phrase, a trick of language, a few word swaps can alter meaning in so many different ways. You can say “I love you” and its effective, albeit pragmatic in its simplicity. An expression of love in its most basic, straight forward form. Perfect for ending a conversation, or a “just because” if the mood strikes you. You can ratchet the intensity to 100 and spin the central conceit into something like “In my life I have dreamed a thousand beautiful and perfect dreams. You are the first dream that has led me to pray to whatever God answers such things, that I never wake.” Or dial it all the way back down to a simpler “Luv ya!”
Not to mention the other directions to go with wry humor “I love you enough to help you hide the bodies.” or “I’d totally make you breakfast in the morning.” Suffice it to say. I love words.
My obsession began years ago, back during the infamous Schoolastic book fairs during elementary school. Remember those? If your folks blessed you with a $10 or $20? You were a King or Queen! for the day. I usually would run for those old Scary Tales books with the grotesque and oddly cute? picture on the front. It was as if young Stephen King and Shel Silverstein were fused into some literary homunculus like chimeric beast who decided to write stories with just enough spice to hit my elementary school brain like a sledgehammer. And an accordion.
I dove into those books, and in time found fantasy, the piece I wrote about NNHS (Room 501) took a couple slight liberties with reality, but its core premise was autobiographical. The classroom at the top of that odd staircase off the red section was loaded with fantasy books. Many of which were rapidly consumed with abandon.
But it was when I came across a collection of H.P Lovecraft’s assorted works in a Newbury Comics (RIP) that everything began to erupt uncontrollably. Lovecraft for those unfamiliar was the father of the Cthulhu and elder god, and some could argue modern horror itself. He was from the early 1900s era, using a combination of contemporary and archaic language in his stories.
In my opinion, his real talent wasn’t in the dialogue between characters, this was often dry and to me? Fairly uninteresting. His core talent revealed itself inside his world building. How he didn’t... use words, he wielded them. In pieces like “Azathoth” he wove strands of silk, filaments of imagination, and fibers of language into perfect transmissions of an understanding inside your mind. His descriptions, full of unique adjectives, shaped in unexpected ways, tickled my mind so wonderfully.
I would often sit with a dictionary as I read, deeply appreciating the education tucked in alongside the story. Appreciating the craft, and later comparing and contrasting later authors against his style. What had started with the hunger for a deeper understanding of the nuances present in both poetry, prose, and the lyricism present in music.
As children, teachers would often ask us to reflect on what we were passionate about. What made us “tick.” I never had an answer. It felt awkward going into myself to answer that question. Too self conscious or maybe lacking the maturity necessary to consider it truly. Funny how it’d take several decades for me to finally discover that the answer had been in front of me the whole time. I had shelves full of books, several in the back seat of my car. The side pocket of my ACUs, and definitely one in my work bag. A book was always within reach, chock full of them.
Delicious.
-KC
