When They Become Turtles

My heart is in this.  I love the Writing Center and want to be a part of this quirky, marvelous, and important work.  I want to contribute to it—both as a consultant and as being a part of the conversation of moving Writing Centers onward and upward in the world.  This much I do know.  Unfortunately, this is about all I’m sure of.  Alas, when it comes to the how of my contribution, I feel at a loss for having something of value to offer or impart.

As we approach the upcoming chain of events involving Writing Center articles and analyses, I’m very much struggling to find my footing.  There is much I’m passionate about, to be sure, but I don’t know what to address that hasn’t already been addressed.   For instance, I have an empathic interest in helping writers overcome writing anxiety.  In the past, I have worked with a number of loved ones (family and friends) in their various writing assignments.  Every one of these people have been smart, capable, and great conversationalists, and yet they all did the same thing when I sat down with each one to help with an essay, cover letter, or written portion of an application of some sort: they would excuse the poorness of their writing, flail the disclaimer that they’re not good writers (because writing is not their “thing”), and any confidence they had for themselves suddenly traded places with an awkward, squeaky-voiced, timid turtle.

It’s funny how so many people can be so quick to say that writing is not their “thing.”  I recently helped a friend with her capstone paper for BSU’s senior nursing students; whether or not she would get an A in her class hinged on the graded outcome of this paper.  When she told me that she wasn’t a writer, the conversation went something like this:

“Thanks for helping me with this paper, Gretch.  (micro beads of sweat start pooling at the hairline).  I really need this to be good, but I’m not a strong writer.”

“No prob, Bob.  But, um, you’re a mom with two little kids and going to school full-time.  And you work.  You know strong.”

“Thanks, but I’m just not a good writer.  I don’t really know how to write.”

“Well, do you know how to say what you have to say?  Do you know how to have a conversation with someone about something you care about, so you converse in a way that you’re trying to convince?

“Well, yea…”

“Then you know how to write.  You have a good, strong voice.  And your writing voice is no different.”

Even though my friend received this idea in earnest, she still struggled with overcoming the nervous affect that writing had on her.  While reading through her paper, there were even some moments when I had to stop after a certain sentence and say, “Wait.  This doesn’t even sound like you.  You don’t talk like this.  Why the overload of so many fancy shmancy words?”  Her reply was, “I thought that’s how I’m supposed to sound.  You know, for these types of papers?”

So, in my observations at that time, along with times I’ve worked with others, I have noticed this overwhelming presence of writer’s anxiety.  I have seen it torment graceful conversationalists and twist them into second-guessing, semi-paralyzed writers.  It makes me sad because I know their awesome voices would go wonderfully on the pages of an engaging essay, and yet something happens to them when they transfer words onto paper, and I think at the core of this is an anxiety that damages the writing process. 

This is where I get stuck.  When I think, “Well, dang!  I want to write about how to help student writers overcome their anxieties when they come to the Writing Center”, I think of all the articles we’ve already covered that address this.  We’ve learned about the pre-textual minutes before an appointment begins, nonverbal communication, creating a friendly environment, building a writer’s confidence during a session, showing that we care…this is why I’m stuck in my attempt to find a topic to focus on for the rest of this semester.  I can’t think of anything to say on this matter that hasn’t already been said by someone, published, and taught to me in class.

To end, there is one lingering thought:  What happened to these people, anyway?  Granted, I’m sure writing can evoke a sense of nervousness across the board; we are, after all, putting a piece of ourselves out there whenever we offer up something to be read that has come from within.  I’m talking about something more, though—those of whom have such a nervousness over their writing that it becomes anxiousness, and it becomes jumbled with a lost confidence and fabricating the voice of a foreign autobot in the writing.  What happened?  Did the traditional ways of school-taught writing traumatize them?  What did their previous teachers do to them?  Have they endured painful judgments for a past heart and voice they offered up on paper and haven’t been the same since?  Anyways, this is just something my curiosity is chewing on.