One knows not why one writes. One just knows that if one doesn’t put one word, to another, to another, much like pieces of lego, one doesn’t, somehow, feel complete. So, we all try, in our own ways, to build our little lego houses. We are unsure, when we set out. So we hack at it. Building small huts, with mismatched blocks, one green piece snapping at two red ones on a yellow base. But, we build. We build because we finally have our fun. We build houses and gardens and little lego people having little lego tea parties on their little lego lawn.
Our houses aren’t good looking, no. Yet, they have a scruffy charm.
And as we build more and more, we find that shapes and colours need to be set, just so. And our vocabulary grows. So does our grammar.
And we write. The first poem. Looking feverishly into the dictionary for words that rhyme with condolence.
Our first big lego house is constructed. We are proud, and display it on top of our TV. And uncles and cousins and neighbours look at it, our poem and nod their heads. They don’t understand it, sure, but they like the twinkle in our eyes as we tell them of how, incense not only rhymes with condolence, but also, in rare circumstance, share the same context.
Soon, we are building three houses a day. Our spanking new lego set is now getting dirtier. More used. We find there are some words we use often, others stay in the big, grey Aristocrat suitcase, to be used later. Some pieces we forget, or throw out of the window. We build townships, and roads.
We get the upgraded Lego set - they call it the Technic. With running parts and rolling blades. And we pick up elements of style and composition. We no longer use all of the pieces, oh no. But we impress friends with what we write.
We use similes, metaphors and sloping roofs and transparent doors. We might outgrow our childhood fascination of the lego. But, those pieces we dumped in the old grey suitcase are still there. For us to use when we are bored. Or need to say something impressive.
Words. Lego pieces. Same difference.