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The poet in me is intrigued by words – not just their meanings, but the rhythms they create and the images and feelings their sound evokes.

Does a word march across the page, bold and upright? Or does it dance, twisting and twirling with meaning? Is it solemn or playful? Does it sing? Or scream? Does it laugh? Or cry?

In my latest work, a historical fantasy about memories, I’m taking my fascination with words a step further by limiting myself mostly to words that were in use by the 14th century. It makes for tedious writing; I’ve been working on this story for a few years now and have only 46,000 words to show for it so far.

So why go to all this trouble?

It’s about authenticity. And being true to the story and to the words themselves. Isn’t that what being a writer is all about?