If only I could write

I’m sitting in front of Deborah, my psychologist. To steer the conversation away from the heavy stuff, I tell her about my Creative Writing course.

“Oh wow, that’s great Sophie, you sound happy about it?” she responds.

“Yeah, no—it’s great. I love being in that building. I really enjoy the group. When I’m there, it feels like the right place for me. Like being a child again, lost in my books and my world. There’s something about it that makes me feel good. But at the same time, I don’t know…I feel like maybe I don’t belong…it’s weird.”

“How so?” Deborah asks.

“Well I can see my English isn’t at the level of the rest of the group. When I read my work, I feel a 10-year-old could have done a better job. I know I’m there to improve…But maybe I should not be there in the first place? If you know what I mean. Like if there were some qualification exams, I probably would have failed them”.  

They’re all so talented, I can’t help thinking.
You’ve got the poet. He writes beautifully…and I actually understand what he wants to say. Which is a big first with me and poems…
Then there is the funny guy, whose way of writing put you straight in the action with him…
The girl who writes in such a delicate and sophisticated way I feel I’m listening to music…
The one who can write drama as easily as she can write witty and funny…
There is another girl who can describe two seconds of your life over ten lines, making you smell and feel the moment, without actually her describing it…
The sensitive guy who writes genuinely from his soul…
Oh and there is another girl who has not spoken much yet, but I suspect her first written piece will be a sensory explosion…

And then there is me.
Me who vomits few words hoping they will make sense together, in some kind of weird team effort. I’m just hoping for the best really.

“The teacher is very good though” I continue. He has a good energy about him. He does not do drama. I mean, you can see he is the type who really wants us to be serious about it. That means accepting our work to be criticized. Accepting to be vulnerable. I like that straight forward approach. No bullshit, kind of.
If it’s good he’ll tell you.
If it’s bad he’ll tell you too.
That is why I took the event badly.
He did not tell me it was bad. I know it was not good though. Basically it did not even qualify to be criticized…

I remember how I disconnected half way through his explanation of the exercise. Right around the point where he said, “Imagine you’re that object. What would that object say..”.
Immediately I started imagining the object as a person.
What would her personality be like, her vocabulary, her interest, her tone of voice, even what she might be wearing…
My mind eventually snapped back to reality at, “…in just four lines”.  
So I missed the full explanation really. That’s fine.
Now what is not, is that my four lines, apart from their irrelevant content, were crap. I knew it because he said:
“All right… all right, yeah I could see the culture element in there…yeah…I think we can say you succeeded in the exercise?”.
Shifting his gaze, he added:
“All right, who is next?”

That lasted a good 45 seconds. The one before lasted a good two minutes, the one after five. Simply because there was material to discuss with their pieces. The vocabulary, the rhythm, the atmosphere, the voice…they were bloody good.
My 45 seconds were an excruciating moment of digging for some crumbles that could be salvaged. 
To his credit, he found something.
He found an element of voice.
And with that, we could, with relief, validate the successful completion of my exercise… 

They are a bunch of nice people. I’m just crap.

“Don’t you think you’re being hard on yourself?

No I don’t. I’m not.

“Imagine if they had to write in french?”

Here we go…she was so close to making me feel better…damn. A hit and miss.

“That’s an irrelevant comparison” I start. She has to be a saint to do this job.

“Why would they be asked to write in a language that is not the one they’ve been mainly communicating in for the last 20 years.”

“All I’m saying is wouldn’t french be easier for you?” she tries.

Here we go. The tipping point. Now I’m on a row. My body is moving forward, ever so slightly. My hands and arms are joining the conversation.

“No, it would not be easier! That’s the whole point. I only speak french when I talk to my parents. Which is clearly not often enough. But the point is, English is my language now. It has been for many years!
When I speak to french people, they ask where I’m from.
When I speak to english speaking people, they ask where I’m from”.
My voice just went up one octave.
Some part of me feel for her.
But my hurt and hopelessness are taking the better of me.

“I’m sorry…” she attempts.

“No It’s ok. I’m sorry. I’m just feeling lost and mad I guess. No, not at you really. Or maybe. I’m not sure. At me I think…
Yeah at me, at me for not being able to bloody speak a proper English knowing I can’t speak a proper french anymore either…”

“I think your English is really good but you…”

Here comes the “but”.
The “but” is good if it comes after a negative I noticed. When it comes after a positive, It’s never good. It will take you down.
I’d rather hear:
“Your English level is not an academic one but it’s good”
Than:
“Your English is good, but it’s not an academic level”.
The former version gives me hope.
The latter gives me despair.
The former opens a door.
The latter closes a door.
The former prepares you for the bad so the not so bad feels great.
The latter prepares you for the best, so the not so good feels crap.

Sophie. Woman. Get a grip, Deborah is talking to you.  

“You know, there are plenty ways to express yourself” she keeps on. “I think you’re doing it with your painting..”

Despair…
I don’t want to express myself with my painting I sigh, internally. I want to express myself with my writing…

Why can’t I dream that one day I could be a writer. Not a prose writer, but someone who writes grammatically correct stories, easy to read, with a limited vocabulary palette, but nonetheless interesting or entertaining?

Deborah is still talking. 

I think my brain did that thing again.