words

My last assignment was to write a short essay on my theory about good writing--particularly good essays. I actually have a lot of theories, but I guess having to narrow it down to 3 double spaced pages is good because it made me narrow my thoughts down to one basic, but big, element of good writing. I am sharing it because.... because the question I ask myself most often (in relation to this blog) is why I feel compelled to share my stories with you. I think this is why. 

A Curious and Wonderful Thing: Words

Words surround me in the form of a thousand books stacked and shoved into the shelves of almost every room in our home. Words envelop me in the form of little voices constantly and consistently begging me for food and entertainment. It didn't take long for those same little people to realize that written words brought them power; as soon as they connected sounds to letters, they began to litter my life with letters to express their disappointments and dreams. One that I saved, dated on New Year's Day, 2013, was written with a black sharpie on practice writing paper, the kind with a red dotted line down the middle of two blue lines. There is a rudimentary drawing of a stocky man, and the words:

Dear Mom,

Thanks for being a good Mom.

Thanks for making us food to eat.

Thanks for changing Amen's poopy diapers....

(P.S. Ammon needs a diaper change)

Words evoke emotion: the above letter resulted in laughter, motherly joy, and pride for my charming children. Words provoke action: I immediately preserved the letter in the form of a digital memory and then proceeded to change my one-year old son’s soiled diaper. Words are powerful: they allow us to express our thoughts, desires, and deepest feelings. 

Like Moses, I am slow of speech, and, like some of my children, I prefer to communicate through the written word. Writing allows me to explore my thoughts and gives me adequate opportunity to know what it is  that I wish to say and a better likelihood of saying it well. Montaigne, the father of the essay, derived the essay form from the French word essai, or “to attempt.” What are we attempting? To understand our thoughts and desires, to put order to our ideas, and to communicate our stories with others. Phillip Lapote explains that in an essay “the track of a person’s thoughts struggling to achieve some understanding of a problem is the plot” (The Fourth Genre, 385).

In his short essay, “Northeast Direct,” Dagoberto Gilb’s thoughts are indeed the plot as he boards the train and sits down behind a man who is reading a novel that he (Gilb) authored. As we take this journey with Gilb, we hear his thoughts and feel, with him, the struggle as he contemplates what the stranger thinks about his book; should he introduce himself or stay anonymous? Finally, Gilb remains silent as they each go their separate ways.

Why do our thoughts matter, and why do we share them? Brett Lott quotes the Reverend Francis Kilvert in his essay, "Toward a Definition of Creative Nonfiction," when he says, "Life appears to me such a curious and wonderful thing that it almost seems a pity that even such a humble and uneventful life as mine should pass away altogether without some record such as this" (392). It is then, perhaps, the mundane and ordinary specks of our lives that we should write about and discuss. We have most likely never had Gilb’s experience of riding on the subway and observing a stranger reading our written words, but perhaps all of us have had a similar dilemma: do we say something or stay excruciatingly voiceless? Gilb’s words allow us to feel his predicament, the fear of rejection, the suspense of the unknown. As Gilb permits us to enter his thoughts, we connect with him and with his narrative until finally, his story becomes our own.

This, then, is the goal: to make my story matter, to communicate on a deeper level of understanding with my audience, and the way to do that is to “write about (myself) in relation to the subject at hand. …Without you and who you are, a piece of writing that tells what happened is simply nonfiction: a police report. But when I begin to incorporate the sad and glorious fact that the way I see it shapes and forms what it is to be seen, I end up with creative nonfiction” (Lott, 393). 

I recently wrote an essay about my great-grandfather, a migrant worker during the Great Depression. My earlier drafts were simply a linear retelling of his story, which was interesting to me, but less relatable to others. As I began to add in my own personal story—my feelings as a wife and mother, my husband’s job loss, a job search, the subsequent move across the country from Ohio to Texas, and a painful miscarriage—our stories began to merge until my great-grandfather’s story became my narrative. My hope, of course, is that as readers have access to my thoughts and reflections that they will feel a connection, and that they will discover their own story as they read mine.  

Writing is powerful. It immortalizes our thought process, our memories. Our stories may not always be unique, but they are always personal. Writing our stories may even, often in fact, makes us feel vulnerable, which is why we hesitate but at the same time feel compelled to share our words. For as I write I discover, and I as I become part of the writing and share it with you, we begin to understand one another on a deeper level, and we come to realization that we are not alone.