The Might of Ink

A Story by Maddy Stillman

I like when words fit together like a puzzle. There could be a thousand words that make sense in a sentence, but only one fits -- one single word glides effortlessly into place -- and you always know it's the one as soon as it pops into your head. Some of the words fall out effortlessly, like you've been writing the same sentences your entire life, their integrity perfectly locked in your mind; but others require you to scour your head for an adequate way to construct some abstract concept in writing. Either way, you know when it's complete. It'll have this rhythm to it, unique from any other. It sort of bounces off your tongue and sits crisply in the air. You can hear the intention without knowing what any of the words mean.

It's kind of like composing music. You have all the notes at your disposal; you just have to get them in the right order until it's a seamless product of your vision. In that respect, I'm not creating anything new. All the words I've fit into place over the years were written by someone else's hand or spoken off of someone else's lips before I ever had the chance. But I think that just might be what amazes me so much. We've heard or read thousands of words just as many times, each story a variation of the last, and a piece of writing can still have an incredible impact on people, as if these words hold theories foreign to mankind. We have the power to create worlds and introduce knowledge and plant it all in the minds of others through strings of letters and symbols. I like having that sort of power.