where the writers are
word play

Words play with each other within the confines of a sentence. They are sentenced to sit between a capital and a stop of some kind. Some sentences are long and luxurious with plenty of space for the words to play freely, sometimes even changing places or even dropping out for a quick refreshing dip in the ink well. Other sentences are short. Brutal. With no room to even swing a verb.

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Well writ, they live.

Well writ, they live.

Often, reviewing journal entries, I realize -sometimes to my great surprise- that I've begun a sentence here on what is ostensibly page one and meandered along for several pages before (mercifully for the reader, I suppose) finally circling in on a conclusion.

I like to think, when I read these leviathans, that despite the fact that they might otherwise legitimately be recast into several coherent and more diminutive sentences, these behemoths still easily carry their own weight beautifully and (if examined by my seventh-grade teacher who insisted upon teaching us to diagram sentences) are also both grammatically and syntactically correct.