To blab or not to...

I'm sorry this letter is so long. I didn't have time to
write a shorter one. -- Pascal, 1657

A friend admires the brevity of my postings.

You've always been a good editor, speaking or writing. You choose your words carefully.

When I was growing up, this came off as shyness. While I paused to formulate my thought, conversationalists around me rippled along to new topics. As an adult I lived in Europe for a time. My hosts liked to tell this story:

Susan didn't say a word for a month; suddenly she was speaking in perfect German sentences!

Butchers cut both ways through language. Some would heap slabs on the plate, others whittle down through the blabber to the meat of the matter.

I don't always mind when people talk a lot. A woman at the pool, call her Flo, describes her recent correspondence with the swimsuit company regarding polyester vs lycra vs nylon or she might recite the transcript of a conversation with a stylist over beauty products and the challenges of hair and she doesn't stop for air she is our own suburban rapper; Flo flow filters through the locker room, her patter soothes us all.

Then again, word choice can blight or spark a conversation. This has to do with space. Conversation is the taking of turns. In spoken word, this is obvious. What about the noble pen?

Conversation asks a writer to be merciful to her reader, merciless with edits. Every time I cross out a word, I leave you space to respond. Ah but the words I choose can be fat and juicy, filled with imagery and innuendo. This is the poet's delight!

There is Flo, the worthy spigot. Along comes prose; the gold necklace on bare shoulders trumps the online catalog of rhinestone baubles any day. The merciful writer spends time teasing quality out from under the hassock.

From prose, poetry and songwriting split off in tandem. The poet chooses precious orbs of meaning. The songwriter merges poetry's sparse opulence with a slew of allegiances: to rhyme, rhythm, music, etc.

Well, if potent words, the fewer the merrier, is the goal, what about music? Potency sans words -- the muse's ultimate creation, no? You're talking to a wordsmith here so, no. Beethoven's a salty dog but I am in love with song.

My novelist cousin came to town on a book tour. I sat with her fans at a signing. One reader asked Ms. Weber how she captures pathos and hilarity in her spicy fiction. The writer said she's kept a personal word book since childhood. She writes down favorites for future reference. At this moment, my ugly duckling, word-infatuated lineage began to please me.

My approach to language is born of reverence for its power to express elegant thought. My friend Mim recently sent me the sweetest of praises:

I love the interview. You are a poet even when you are simply speaking.

Mim, you may be right. Then again, this is my longest posting to date. Duckling or swan, there is ever more to learn about the shy abundance of mercy.