So many murdered little words… I am a monster.
I tend to keep to small, common words in my writing — be it poetry or otherwise — it’s a conscious decision. That’s not to say I don’t give myself over to the occasional rare, obsolete, outré (10 cents *ding*) or lengthy word, but I tend to avoid them because I have never found them very helpful in conveying what I’m trying to say. In fact, I find they obfuscate (20 cents *ding*) just what I’m getting at. And they get expensive.
So I stick to slaying the little ones and maniacally laughing as I repeatedly go stabby-stabby, leaving little word bodies everywhere. As I said, I am a monster…
I love odd words. People who discover that I can spend hours on wiktionary tend to gasp and back away slowly. I like discovering the origins of words, digging into the depths of history to discover odd little things about them (one of my favorites is the short, but fascinating, “fell” in terms of denoting something as evil; likewise “wer” as in “werewolf”, which means, literally, “man-wolf”, wer=man).
But I prefer to write with words most people are familiar with. It probably makes them easier to kill; I’m craven (13 cents, no, 12 cents *ding*) in my heart and don’t like words that put up a fight as I’m trying to beat them into a bloody pulp.
If I was a decent writer, instead of a mass-murdering word-killer, I might not make such a mess.
And I might kill with words, instead of mangling them. Such is the fate of the talentless…