Ruminations From a Cluttered Mind

Here's a curious thought. Every villain and/or victim in the last couple stories I've written I coincidentally named after people in my life with whom I have difficult connections. Psychologically speaking, I find it kind of amusing. I have a fascination with names, with their meaning and connotations. Naming characters is kind of a sacred act, and I get hung up on that task at times. Naming my children has been one of the great joys in life, as again, each name signifies something noteworthy and relatively subtle, and has overtones both conscious and unconscious.

In that light, I think it's pretty obvious that writing would have so much appeal for me. Language is appealing. Vocabulary, definition, Webster, Roget.

A favorite saint of mine, Catherine of Sienna, was functionally illiterate and probably had a learning disability according to today's standards, but she was miraculously able to read from complicated theological texts when called into question, texts in both her native Italian and in French and Latin. When examined by those who doubted her, they demanded to know how she could read words but not know the sounds of the letters. Her response was beautiful: Words are made of living sounds that give birth to meaning.

It pleases me immensely that I was unknowingly named after two saints who were renowned for their powerful writing.