A couple weeks ago I was hiking in an oceanside state reserve just north of La Jolla, California. (It was part of a trip documented in my other life, over here.) We rested at the top, breathing in the beautiful views. My friend and I had been talking about a class she’s taking in Chicago. Her assignment was to summarize an article on the topic she was studying in a paragraph. She was angsty about it, planning to finalize it in the car on our ride north that day, waiting until the very last minute to email the file to her instructor. She accepted my offer of help, so I asked her to tell me what she wanted to say. That was easy. She thought for a minute, and explained what she wanted to put on paper in clear, simple prose.
“Good,” I said. “Now write that down.”
***
Today, far from that sunny California coastline, I’m back on the treeless, landlocked High Plains of western Kansas, where the wind is whipping in a way that would bring Mrs. Brewster to her knees. Ice is crawling up the windowpanes, although the snow that has fallen is barely covering the ground. All of us are home, because we’ve got two sick kids. It’s the second day of sickness, so I’ve brought out the “Little House on the Prairie” TV box set.
I have a love-hate relationship with the TV show. On the one hand: a bastardization of Laura’s life; plots either treacly, recycled from Bonanza, or both; Albert. On the other: a beautifully shot, (mostly) exquisitely acted family TV show that brings me back to some of the happiest times of my childhood. I haven’t paid much attention to the show in my adult years because I’ve been so enmeshed in Laura’s real life, but as I sat down to watch yesterday with my kids, from the beginning of Season 1, I was reminded again of how there was a time in my life where I wanted nothing more than to be Laura Ingalls — the one with brown eyes and freckles, who answered to “Melissa” in real life.
One of the episodes we watched concerned an essay that Laura had to write about something important. Mary wrote about Pa and his bravery and leadership in bringing the family from Wisconsin to Kansas and then to Plum Creek. Laura wanted to write about her Ma but was despondent, knowing she couldn’t write very well. On the day of the recitation — all the kids were supposed to read their essays aloud to an audience of parents — Laura read a touching, beautifully crafted essay that brought tears to the eyes of everyone in the room. Except she wasn’t really reading, of course. She was just talking. She moved her eyes down to the paper at times to keep up the facade of reading, but it was obvious that there was nothing on the paper.
Later on, Ma gently calls her on her deception, and Laura reluctantly offers to tell the truth to Miss Beadle. In the empty schoolroom Laura hands her paper to Miss Beadle and we see what Laura has written: “Ma is nice. She cooks. She cleans. She sews.” Miss Beadle, wisely, hands the paper back to Laura with nary a protest, repeating what a lovely job she did and how she expected even more improvement over the coming year.
Miss Beadle knew it was a wonderful piece of writing, even though it wasn’t written down. She understands, as most writers do, that the best writing often comes from writing the way we speak–which many people are afraid to do.
Like my friend. When I told her to write down what she said, she looked confused. “What did I say?” Her mental block was almost immediate. Most of us have been taught that writing should be formal, using more stilted words than the ones that come out of our mouths. But if we’re already adept at clear oral communication, we’ve already got the words. Later on in the car, I opened my friend’s laptop. “Tell me again what you said up there.” So she talked, and I typed. When I was done, I handed it back to her. She was impressed. I told her I didn’t do anything. I was just her transcriptionist.
If you’re ever hesitating over something you need to write, try writing it the way you’d say it. It will work.
