The Power of the Written Word

Photo of lady and books              Girl with books Where does your inspiration come from? Is it the vibrant colors in a treasured painting or the pulsating beat of your favorite rock band that gets your heart to pumping and makes your hands itch to pick up a paintbrush or guitar and produce your own masterpiece? Maybe you’re like me and find yourself surprised by a plethora of sensory delights that stir your imagination and inspires your creativity.

I find my greatest inspirations in literature. Amazing novels take me on journeys of imagination that open up new worlds to explore. They can make me laugh, cry, and empathize with people who start out as fictional characters and evolve into friends by the last page.

Poetry speaks to the soul and entreats me to be best version of myself that I can be. Nonfiction educates my mind, causes me to ponder new possibilities, and entreats me to ask, “What if?”

Histories and inspirational biographies reinforce my deep-seated belief that we can overcome life’s trials. We can persevere.

After years of tragedy and triumphs, Becky, the main character in my novel, Breaking TWIG, concludes that, “We all filter the realities of life through our own personal fears, individual experiences, and the human need to cling to hope despite the circumstances, regardless of the odds. And in doing so, we each determine our own truth.”

Inside the pages of a book is where I find the people, places, words, and ideas that inspire me to continually seek and reevaluate my own truth.

Deborah Epperson



The prints, “Dig”/Sadie Wendell Mitchell, artist and “The book worm and her favorite book”/ Will Houghton, are courtesy of the Library of Congress.

3 thoughts on “The Power of the Written Word

  1. Debbie, with all the novel writing and reading, I some times forget about poetry. Wow. I will now stop and read some of my mother’s favorites. This is part of one of her favorites by Mazie Halliday Binnion.

    In the calm of a cool shady valley,
    At the edge of a rippling rill,
    There’s a cottage so restful and rustic,
    Nestled close in the arms of a hill.
    There’s repose in that quaint little cottage
    Away from all hurry and strife.
    There I feel the fruits of my striving
    Are not the true values in life.
    The rustle of wind in the oak trees,
    The song of the proud mockingbird,
    The ripple and splash of a wandering brook
    Make a symphony joyfully heard.
    There the cares of the world are forgotten
    And I am free from all fears, stress and strain.
    There I gain a new strength and fresh courage,
    And quiet peace is mine once again.
    I’ll not trade that quaint little cottage
    Nestled close in the arms of a hill.

    My Mom feels close again for a few moments.

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