Why Write? An Odyssey of Its Own

Here Sharon Lange tells of her love of language and why she writes—and of the power inherent within connected language.

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Upon waking the question emerges: "Why write, why bother?"

Dwelling within the realms of writing evokes a sense of wistfulness, for as deeply moving as language is, there is nothing on earth that can remedy the ills and maladies affecting the human race. It is to be found through connections of higher realms outside this planet’s orb.

Connections to angels called forth while writing, while musing, arising from within, through the usage and love of language.

Language is no simple thing. It has amassed unto itself much over the centuries, in passing through the minds and hearts of humans of all ages, throughout multiple eras. It has grown into a bridging medium between seen and unseen, between the possible and the impossible. Sounds were emitted, shaped in the caverns of throat, echoed in the chambers of ears. The sounds made in surprise, pain, excitement and anticipation have formed themselves into vehicles of delineation between the many feelings, experiences, senses and the vast array of things met within a day.

Wondrous would it be if we were to see the Angel of Language appear before us. Through our connection to this glorious being, language itself has grown and refined, as well as those of us who suffuse its words with meaning and sentiment.

Language is the connecting of puzzle pieces, notching itself into the spaces, just so, and working itself, word by word, phrase by phrase, until the pieces fit into a cohesive understanding. It is the salve that soothes and heals the wounds and hurts, large and small. It offers the forgiveness of horrendous deeds and small lapses of common sense. It is vast in its encompassment, for it lives in the hearts of those who speak, who wish for a better tomorrow, a better today. It learns from the past, bringing us a means of hope through expression. It opens the door to change, molecules within the letters seeking electrons to form themselves into the exact configuration needed at the moment, at any moment.

So, when I awake with those words in my mind asking "Why write, why bother?", is it something asking for more than I feel I can give at that moment? Is it an emissary of the past, seeking to find foothold in the future, that it may continue to live on in spite of its fading value in the needs of tomorrow?

Can we forge the way ahead through the words of today? Can we summon that Angel of Language to rise up and call upon the legion of angels in its realms to bring on the remedy, to call forth the deeply sentimented language of hope and promise and future?

I write because I can. I write because I am called to do so. I write because I hope and I write because I dare.

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