Dictionary, O Dictionary!

Dictionary! The very word causes my ears to prick, my pupils to enlarge, my mouth to salivate. I am drawn to them as moths to flames; I hoard them as crows do shiny objects, and flap cawing to their pages to prove myself right. For amusement I looked up the word dictionary in one, found my eye devouring all words before and after, discovered myself to be a tyrannical dictioneer (one who makes it his business to criticize diction or style in language-contemptuous-Oxford English Dictionary-.), and coveted the dictionary itself, a word-gourmand's heavenly buffet in 18 volumes. I style myself the human dictionary, a walking compendium of symbols and their meanings. I am that jackal who corrects the slightest error as soon as it falls out of your face, an infuriating creature who spouts multisyllabic and nigh obsolete words, a natural linguist. I revel in language, I wallow in words, tossing them about like a lottery winner, pouncing in cat-like play, obsessed with arranging, rearranging, paring, pruning...

What disturbs me about my writing is not my ability, for I am over-endowed with the means of expression. It is ferreting out the concepts worthy of expression, rooting through my small experience snuffling out truffles to justify the death of a tree for my inkstained page. Friends give me lovely journals that remain blank for years because I won't waste them on my everyday scribblings.