WORDS
When I was little, I wasn’t much good at making
myself heard in the fleeting spaces left by my three older
siblings but I learned to find my voice a different way. I would
play with words inside my head, roll them round my tongue and
sound them out in a whisper – rambunctious, rollicking,
uproarious. I discovered that individual words had shapes; and
phrases, rhythms; that moving words around in a sentence could
change the meaning. Only the
bishop gave the baboon the bun. The only bishop
gave the baboon the bun. The bishop only gave
the baboon the bun. On and on until ‘only’ had leapfrogged
its way to the end of the sentence in a word-scape of limitless
opportunity.
I became an observer too, logging in my head what was happening
around me, things said and unsaid, seen or felt. Once I could
write, I found myself scribbling little snatches here and there,
sentences, then paragraphs, but it was always more about the
words than the stories they told.
In my twenties, I took off round the world for a year, tucking a
pocket English dictionary into my overloaded backpack. It helped
me to while away the hours on ambling trans-Indian trains and
distracted me on windowless buses as they hurtled down mountain
roads. But a few weeks into my travels it disappeared, and then I
knew it was time to start threading my own words together on a
page. It was my first extended piece of writing. The joy of
putting words stayed with me and over the decades I discovered
that at low or high points in my life I’d simply start to write.
It was a way to check in with myself, to capture and record, to
process and resolve.
As a psychotherapist I think about words in a slightly different
way. I look for the meaning behind them as well
as in them,
the feelings they reveal or conceal. ‘Well, anyway,’ when it’s
simply too painful for someone to carry on. I watch for the
things that go with words,
a momentary hesitation, a silence, a peal of laughter when it
could be tears. Like a detective I gather the smallest details;
clues that help me to understand the person in front of me, how
they move through the world, relate to others, relate to
themself. I discover the things that have shaped them and their
places of unresolved pain. I hold onto it all until the time is
right to share with them my understanding of the things I’ve
gleaned from their words. It’s a bit like that with my writing
too. I learn about myself, and the world around me, when I write.
I’d always thought of words as my friends until the day a young
policewoman sat in my garden and told me that my son had died.
They became my enemy as they floated across the table towards me.
I wanted to push them away, change their order, undo their
meaning but they had already set like concrete in the warm spring
air.
I wondered if I would ever be able to trust words again. And the
world they were a part of. But just ten days later, at four one
morning, I found myself reaching for my iPad and starting to tap
away on it. Words came, and they saved me. I couldn’t undo what
the young policewoman had said but I could make sense of it. It
took two years, and 180,000 words, before I was ready to stop
writing. I wasn’t sure what would come next, but I knew I wasn’t
done.
My book came out of those words. Over the next three years I
discovered a different sort of writing process. I went on
courses, joined a group, learned to critique work and have mine
critiqued. And most importantly of all I grew a thicker skin and
discovered that, precious though my story was to me, I could bear
to learn from others’ views of it. I pared back my words and
crafted them into a narrative that others might read. I lost my
beloved Sam but I gained something precious too.
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