I love to write. I love how it allows people to tell stories, whether from knowledge, imaginary worlds, or personal experience. I appreciate it like art, both enlightening and inspirational. But just because I enjoy writing doesn’t mean I’m the best at it — something I woefully admit.
My plight in a nutshell:
I hoard adjectives, with prose shamelessly flourished in adverbs and metaphors. My tendency to err on the side of caution over-explain is punctuated with “you know what I mean” for fear you won’t know what I mean. You know what I mean? (Just kidding.)
A guidance counselor had me take a career inventory test in high school, from which my results were no surprise. First was librarian, followed by technical writer — both outcomes aligning with my penchant for research, organization, and detail, beneficial if you’re into wine, keeping it real with geography, grape varieties, viticulture, and vinification. Besides, selecting bottles for meals and occasions is like checking out books from the library. Within my Punnett square of predictive pursuits (i.e., library science and detailed instruction), bean counting is one such crossing — perhaps now, wine is another.
How would you respond to the classic icebreaker about superpowers? Sure, time travel and teleportation would be pretty rad, but have you ever said exactly what you wanted to say exactly when and how you wanted to say it? Personally, not much can top that thrill.
They say the key to becoming fluent in another language is immersion. It’s also how I label the last five years — my Rosetta Stone in learning and tasting, immersed in wine’s rich vernacular. Until the day comes when I can wax laconic at the drop of a hat, wine will remain my broker of storytelling. Wine conveys succinctly what I only wish I could say in few words. Wine is my shorthand — saying it without saying it, telling you without telling you.
Wine taps into my innate thoughtfulness — a (writing) medium to show gratitude, to commemorate milestones, to bestow ideal gifts, to give considerate recommendations, to encourage magical pairings, and ultimately, to tell captivating stories. No more circular references, wild goose chases, nor lost trains of thought. Instead, swirls and sonnets, harvests and haikus, endless possibilities in liquid poetry — me, here with you and bottles of wine.