Writing is the clearest way I come to understand myself, and figure out what I didn’t know I knew. I can spend time thinking about myself—asking why and how come— but I soon get tired of the subject matter. My thoughts spin around in circles, and I get easily distracted before figuring much of anything out.
Writing can go in circles too. But sometimes it leads to a new idea or understanding that shifts my swirling gaze into focus.
Here’s an example of what I mean. I recently participated in a writing workshop session where the prompt was, “What I knew was….” and “What I didn’t know was…” The leader also gave six random words and invited us to use any, all or none of them. One word was “language.”
I had no plan when I started writing. But something about the word “language” dropped me down into my high school French class, and I began there. Where I ended up was somewhere else.
Here’s how my writing went.
What I knew was…I couldn’t make my French sound right. Like my sweet high school teacher—more southern than me—my French sounded very American. I couldn’t make the syllables sound like poetry—not like my daughter can now. I knew I was learning vocabulary but I would never sound French.
What I didn’t know then was I still had two more languages to learn, Greek and Hebrew, and neither would require me to sound authentic.
What I didn’t know then was I would have a child who could speak and learn multiple languages and sound authentic doing it.
And a child whose French sounded French.
And a child to teach me the language of loss—a language I am still learning. And writing is how I am learning this language.
My words get muddled and I stammer and get stuck until something lets go inside and on the page and my words move through time and space, back and forth, before and after, in a vocabulary—a grammar—of grief, and a language of loss.
This language I speak fluently, and when I hear the accent of another who also speaks it, my ears recognize it, and my heart leans—open, listening, and learning.
It’s been a couple weeks since I wrote that, and the phrases “grammar of grief” and “language of loss” are still rattling around in my head. So too is the idea that those who speak that language share a common and recognizable accent, if you listen for it. It has changed how I listen to the introductory chitchat with people I am meeting in our new town.
How will your writing change you, as you come to understand yourself better?
a writing prompt
What I knew was….
What I didn’t know was…
