The Many Lives of Words: Playful, Poetic, Personal, and Preserved

Words don’t live just one life.

They play.

They comfort.

They haunt.

They shape who we are — and where our stories end up living once we let them go.

January offers a cluster of literary observances that, taken together, remind us how flexible and enduring words really are. From expanding vocabulary and beloved characters to handwriting, classic authors, and the shelves that keep stories within reach, this week invites us to notice language in all its forms.

I love a good thesaurus.

Truly. It’s one of a writer’s best friends. I use mine constantly — not to sound smarter, but to sound better. Clearer. More precise. More me.

A thesaurus isn’t about reaching for the fanciest word you can find. In fact, that’s the only real danger: choosing a word so far outside your usual vocabulary that it sticks out like a sore thumb. If the rest of your writing lives comfortably in five-cent words and suddenly a ten-cent one shows up uninvited, the rhythm breaks.

But used well, a thesaurus does something wonderful: it expands your vocabulary. When you learn that X is another way of saying A, you haven’t just solved a sentence — you’ve added a new tool to your writer’s toolbox.

Instead of overhauling your prose:

A thesaurus isn’t about replacement — it’s about discovery.

I’ll admit it: I was never a Pooh kid.

I didn’t read the books. I didn’t watch the cartoons. He just… never called to me. I couldn’t tell you why. As a child, I gravitated toward Care Bears, Strawberry Shortcake, and other brightly colored worlds — Pooh simply didn’t make the cut.

And yet.

I understand why he’s endured. A.A. Milne created something gentle and comforting, a world where kindness mattered, where simple wisdom lingered, and where children found safety in familiarity. Pooh has been loved for generations not because he dazzles, but because he reassures.

Even if he wasn’t my cup of tea, I’d much rather see children embrace Pooh or Beatrix Potter than some of the louder, agenda-heavy content aimed at kids today.

You don’t have to be a lifelong fan:

Some stories endure not because they change us — but because they steady us.

Poe and I go back to my preteen years.

While I was reading Fear Street and watching Are You Afraid of the Dark?, I was also devouring Poe.

The Tell-Tale Heart. The Cask of Amontillado. The Pit and the Pendulum. The Murders in the Rue Morgue.

I loved the suspense — dark without being gratuitous, eerie without being grotesque.

I don’t know much about Poe’s personal life beyond knowing it was marked by tragedy.

What I do know is that his stories still creep under the skin in the best way. They linger. They unsettle. They remind us that words can whisper just as powerfully as they shout.

You don’t need a gothic bent to appreciate him:

Poe reminds us that atmosphere is a language all its own.

Handwriting is personal.

It’s muscle memory. Identity. Rhythm. The way your thoughts slow down just enough to take shape. When you write by hand, your brain works differently — more deliberately, more consciously.

I’ve noticed how much my handwriting has changed since I stopped writing letters and essays by hand. It’s sloppier now. Less intentional. Once upon a time, my script was neat, classic — even praised. These days, typing has taken over, and something tactile has been lost.

Handwriting connects us to ourselves in a way screens simply can’t.

No grand gestures needed:

Handwriting reminds us that thinking has a physical rhythm.

Libraries — public or personal — are where stories wait patiently.

I love visiting my local library. I also love my home library. One day, I hope to have an entire room devoted to books. For now, they live everywhere: shelves in nearly every room, even the bedroom.

Library Shelfie Day invites us to celebrate these spaces. The idea is simple: take a photo of yourself beside a shelf of books. Whether that shelf lives in a library or your own home doesn’t matter.

(And if you’re not a big selfie taker, photographing the books themselves works just as well.)

Library Shelfie Day isn’t about performance or perfection. It’s simply an invitation to notice the spaces where books live — and the role they play in your daily life. Whether that space is public or private, polished or a little chaotic, it still tells a story.

Books don’t just tell stories — they build homes.