Learning to Write

I think back to when I was learning to write and wonder: did learning to write reveal something about my personality?

This form of language acquisition, I do remember.

I don’t remember — as I suspect few of us do — how we stepped into our spoken language selves: the moment we started to speak our mother tongue, when, and to whom.

We were born into a world of language and quickly learned it was a means to satisfy our wants and needs. At first, we used non-verbal communication — often not very successfully — until, over time, daily exposure to the rhythm of language helped us develop the motor skills to use our lips, tongue, and breath in synchronicity.

We wanted to be part of the world. We wanted to be known. Language helped achieve this.

Writing comes later. It’s interesting to reflect on our early memories of learning to write and what they reveal about us as communicators.

For some, writing isn’t particularly important — other modes of communication suffice, or instinctual knowing is enough within their clan or community. For others, writing is vital: an intrinsic drive toward mastery, a way to be heard in a form that is permanent, to see a tangible product of one’s own mind and effort. Spoken language is ephemeral; writing offers a permanence that, in many cultures, is seen as carrying more weight — though oral traditions would argue otherwise.

For me, writing was something I deeply wanted to do, to learn, and to master quickly. I hungered to understand the mechanisms of body and mind that allowed words to form before my eyes. Writing gave me a deep, satiating sense of satisfaction.

Yet I was too eager, too focused. I gripped my pen tightly, believing that’s what was needed. I wrote in tiny, microscopic letters, determined not only to write perfectly but also to fit as much as possible onto a single page. I longed to grow up — to graduate from pencil to pen. I worked hard for that coveted pen license.

Perhaps a looser grip and freer letter formation would have allowed me to breathe as I wrote, to enjoy the sensation rather than focus solely on the product.

When I reflect on learning other skills, I notice the same pattern: holding on too tight, striving for early precision. Maybe I need a lighter approach. Or maybe precision and intensity are just how I engage with the world — and that’s okay.

Perhaps there’s no need to dwell on how we learned to write. It’s simply a skill most of us acquire through schooling and use throughout our lives.

But putting pen to paper changes something. It shifts our relationship with the world. Suddenly, we are praised, critiqued, and scrutinized in ways that spoken language never allowed. Writing gives others a new way to see us — and a new way to judge us.

Learning to read shares a similar path. It precedes writing and often feels more blurred in our memory. We remember the stories we were told, but the act of learning to read them often sits somewhere between conscious and unconscious recollection. Writing, however, happens later — and we tend to remember it. How well we learned to write often shaped the trajectory of our schooling: whether we thrived or simply survived.

Reflecting on how we learned to write, I suspect, is something you too remember — especially if education has played an important role in your life. What our teachers told us, the successes and setbacks we experienced, may have shaped everything that followed.

In this way, writing can be seen as the ultimate initiation into the scholarly world, with reading laying the foundation for this culminating skill.

To write is to demonstrate your education within the Western world.

Not writing isn’t a sign of lesser intelligence, skills, or experience. But writing signals an association with the academic tradition.

As academics say, publish or perish. But perhaps it’s not just a threat — perhaps it’s a drive to continue creating, to sharpen one’s craft through the symbolic power of language.

When we write, we merge the skill of written expression with our lived experience and accumulated knowledge. For academics, writing is essential. But for all of us, reflecting on our early writing experiences might help us redefine why, how, and for whom we write.

Maybe we write because it nourishes us. Maybe it’s not a chore, but a joy.

One can be proud of their ability to use the symbols of language through writing. If writing becomes an interest — a pastime, a practice, or even a profession — it should be pursued for the simple, profound delight of celebrating language through the written word.

Until next time,

Mon xx