And then I begin to answer the questions point by point.
Why do words captivate me? Perhaps they run in my blood as they do in my head and my heart. In any case I cannot avoid loving words. Harnessing those horse-wild groups of letters and making them bear my fancy is invigorating, challenging, and wonderful.
Why do I even bother? Because I can't help Bothering. I was born to Bother with writing just as assuredly as I was born to dance and sing and make merry. "A star danced, and under that was I born." It is in my nature, and one cannot separate oneself very efficiently from personality.
Do I have any talent in this area? It wouldn't matter if I could barely string "The Man Went To The Store" together. My heart and hand bid me write and did I scrawl nothing but paltry nursery-rhymes, I could no more stop than I could now, up to my neck in numerous Projects.
Am I only stylizing myself a writer? Could I pretend to be anything else? I am not a musician, though I love music. I am not a painter, though I can wield a brush with a passable hand. I am not a dancer though my feet cannot stand still in the presence of rhythm and melody. Therefore I can only conclude that I stylize nothing. I am a writer, and that's all there is to it.
And quick as that my doubts and fears and hopes die away altogether in the great calm of knowing I am in my element with a pen and paper. I do think the Lord has given me a gift (however small) in the area of writing. All the glory must go to Him, and so though I acknowledge I am a writer, I wonder at it myself.
Me? How did this happen? Why do words bend for my pen?
It is a great mystery, is it not, this quiet marriage of heart and mind with word and deed?