You can talk about the ocean all day, or you can jump in. If you jump in you’re going to get wet. You’re going to get salty. You’re going to get that thing where the salinity dehydrates you and your ears start to hurt and for years you don’t know why you always feel terribly after a day at the beach and you think it’s just that you’re blind without your glasses and the sun is bright but none of that makes sense and the dehydration thing is much more logical.

That last part might be personal. That’s the point. The experience of language can be broken down and examined for its structures, organized into techniques for more fluent and engaging communication. But that’s not enough. It’s also personal. It’s also sensory. You can stand on the cliff face and measure the tides, but you’ll only ever be an observer. You’ll never be a writer.

This place, my Sea of Words, is where we get salty.

A Curious, Nuanced Rebellion
An examination of sentences with a sip of vodka.

Taking a Knife To The Dream
To write an actual novel, that perfect dream-novel has to die.

Pages, Empty and Filled
The wonder of having too many notebooks.

Lyrical Prose and the Perfect Baguette
You might never be able to write like Joyce, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be a great writer.

The Communication Paradox
Story and poetry come not from the perfection of communication, but from it’s magnificent failures.