Some people prefer writing in their second language to writing in their first — not, or not only, because of pragmatic reasons such as an increased reach, but for more personal ones. In my previous posts (part I & part II) on this topic I ventured two guesses as to why writing in one’s second language might sometimes feel more adequate: reflective and therapeutic distance. By “reflective distance” I meant a less habitualized and more playful way of using a language that promotes self-expression. By “therapeutic distance” I meant a certain degree of detachment from one’s thinking habits that facilitates engagement with difficult or painful topics. There’s certainly some overlap between both kinds of distance, and I suspect that both have a role to play in “finding one’s voice” — the subject of this post.
I so fear the word of men.
They pronounce everything so distinctly.
And this is called dog and that is called house,
and here it begins and the end’s over there.(R. M. Rilke 1897/1899, translated)
Finding your voice is hard, especially if you’re not exactly the opinionated type to begin with or tend to second-guess yourself. Each sentence you put down on paper (or screen) might strike you as too confident, too definitive. And how can you ever hope to capture subtle moods or shifts thereof by words such as “happy” or “sad”, “angry” or “frustrated”? Putting things into words can feel confining, as if it thwarted rather than fostered one’s striving for authenticity and sincerity.
When I first started blogging, all my posts felt wrong. And I remember the same feeling regarding my early diary entries, which preceded any eventual blogposts, and which mostly dealt with horses. Sometimes the products of blogging and journaling still feel off to me, but less so. In part, that is certainly due to the shedding of my preconceived notions of what a decent piece of writing looks like — no, you don’t really need a big idea; and no, your sentences don’t have to be complicated; and yes, there may be repetitions; and no, uncommon words ain’t essential. If you really, really like dashes and brackets, go for it, keep them. Dash the fuck out of your keyboard!
More importantly, however, I allow myself a different perspective on what I have written. I now like to think that our sentences don’t define us, they reflect a momentary stage of our lives, they are snapshots. I once called myself a “futility maximizer”. Do I really see myself that way? Sometimes, maybe. I also once wrote a somewhat pathetic rant about small towns and an accusatory piece called “bitter pill”. It’s okay to exaggerate. We all have our more dramatic moments. Why not own them?
Another thing to let go of: fear of imitation. Our own voices are a distillate of a wild mixture of influences. Our selves emerge through engagement with and in distinction from others. And this, finally, forges a connection to the topic of this little trilogy, second languages. Because if your most cherished authors — those, whose voices you admire, whose writings inspire you — write in a language different from your native one, this might quite naturally yield a desire to emulate.
Remarks on Bookmarks 