It feels important to ask myself, at regular intervals, why do I write?

The whole concept of writing is a strange one.

I mean, stringing words together on a page, re-reading them, making changes and poring over each word and comma . . . until it is done, truly is a strange activity.

Yet it is that intense scrutiny of words – bordering on obsession that holds me.

Not only the words themselves but the way they sound . . . together.

Pick up a good poetry book, bursting with inspirational words, a book like Michael Ondaatje’s The Cinnamon Peeler. His words sing. . . in a language that paints a picture and captures your imagination and makes you want to write.

Words inspire us, they make us cry, make us think but . . . words can be confusing too.

I was once asked by author and mentor, Melissa Lucashenko, to find a perfect sentence.

I looked through books, thought about song lyrics and read poems. There were so many sentences I loved . . for different reasons. But perfect. . . a perfect sentence?

I couldn’t pick one. It was like when my dad asked me to fetch a left-handed screwdriver. I searched his tool box but all I found was a screwdriver.

There is no perfect sentence. No single perfect word. But there are right ones.

For your story. . . for my story. I write to tell my story in the very best words I can find.

Picture: The Boring Shop, at Cockatoo Island, Sydney by S. Freymark, 2010