The Language of Change
Words are a tool. I will use them wisely when I speak to others, and especially when I speak to myself.
“Just because you aren’t writing… does that make you any less of a writer?”
He phrased it as a question, but it was clear from his tone that he saw only one valid answer. It was a statement, and I was supposed to agree. I shrugged and mumbled something incoherent. I don’t remember the rest of the conversation. My mind was stuck on one short phrase: less of a writer. “Of course it makes me less of a writer,” I thought, “it is an action word, not a title.” Write is a verb.
We went our separate ways, but the three seconds of conversation stuck. It floated to the hollow of my mind and joined the flock of little thoughts that swoop and dive just above the horizon line of conscious thought. There it found friends and congealed into a messy mass too big to float. Now it is demanding a reckoning.
Sometimes our muses are beautiful, other times they are just loud.
The Language of Change
I had a professor in College who told me that words could change reality. The things we say (and way we say them) influence us and others in subtle and powerful ways. He illustrated his point with a simple statement to one of my fellow students: “If I say ‘I love you,’ it changes things.”
Indeed it does. Love is a powerful word. So powerful, in fact, that I have a difficult time using it. I can count on my fingers the people to whom I’ve said “I love you.” Like writer, the word love implies action, and I do not want to imply something when I can’t (or won’t) follow through. The implication is where the power is.
For me, responsible word use involves the management of implications as well as the main idea. This makes me non-committal when talking about the things I know or the things I can do. I’ll say “I think the event is at 7” when I can see it in my calendar, or use “I’ll give it a shot” instead of “I can do that.” I don’t want to set up the wrong expectations in my listener.
My approach fails, though, when I consider the implication of those same words on myself. Because I am a listener too.
“I’ll Give It a Shot”
The statement “I’ll give it a shot” is a hedging statement. A statement with an exit plan. The verbal equivalent of a short selling stock. It is also pretty short on selling self. It means that I will try, but it doesn’t mean I will succeed. It implies risk to my listener, and failure to myself.
The other statements are similar: I think the event is at 7… can’t I trust myself to enter the correct time in my phone? I am tech savvy, and careful, and I check my work as I go. I know that the time is correct. But the minute I preface that little phrase with I think I begin to doubt myself. If I don’t trust myself to accurately enter an event in my phone, what will I trust myself to do?
Not much.
Trust, in a very real (but not at all literal) way, makes the world go ‘round. It is a practical necessity. An unspoken law that governs so many of our daily operations. It is like gravity (which, incidentally, is a big contributor to the physics of why the world goes ‘round).
We trust that what we see is accurate, even if we shouldn’t (do some research into the reliability of eyewitness reports). We trust that not every person we meet is planning to annihilate us. We trust that our Doctors make us better and that our food will keep us healthy. We trust that the power will be on, that the sun will rise, and that we’ll still have our jobs in the morning. In an abstract way, we trust in the magic of disparate things influencing each other because it is their habit, and we trust in the tiny divine spark that imbeds goodness in mankind.
I would never presume to completely know myself, but I still can (and still will) trust myself. At least as much as I would trust the sun to rise or my food to be nourishing. I know what I am capable of and I can push myself to make good on my goals.
If I fail, I learn. It isn’t the end of the world. Nor does it make me a liar.
Building Trust
If I tell you I am a writer, but I never put pen to paper (or fingers to keys), I am a liar.
This is the heart of why I’ve been so reticent to fess up to my new hobby. I did not want to imply a consistent body of work because I was terribly afraid I would fail to produce. I did not trust myself, so I set an expectation that I could never hope to meet:
Writer (verb) — a person who is in the perpetual act of writing
No one could meet that standard. It is physiologically impossible. And in setting that standard, I bet against myself. I won the bet at the cost of confidence. Then, I hedged my language and reinforced my fear. It is high time to break out of that cycle. I need to trust myself.
So here it is, folks, my confession: I am a writer. I write stuff. And sometimes I share it too.