“We cringe; we read. Is this really who we once were? Yes, it is.”
“Or sometimes, even sadder, we must read between the lines. Some diary entries can reflect a fantasy of adolescence, filled with friends and so very much fun, when from the safe vantage point of maturity it is possible to remember too the misery, the insecurity. There’s no question that at various times we lie to ourselves when we write.”
“Literacy had once been a way of keeping people in their place, poor people, enslaved people, immigrants. For centuries only the rich or highly educated could read, write, and so have a voice. When literacy was democratized, it changed everything because the voices of the few and the privileged were supplanted by a chorus of the many, from many walks of life. People used words, not simply for treatises or sacred texts but to connect with others like themselves, who might not be learned but were certainly human. Writing was a kind of handshake or embrace: Hello, I see you. I want to know and understand you. I want to understand myself.”
“She was young and idealistic, and she decided that one way for her students to survive, to learn, to succeed, was to see their own stories on the page.”
“‘I took away everything that would have been a distraction,’ she recalls, ‘spelling, punctuation, grammar. It was reckless abandon.’”
“Erin’s students were supposed to move on to other teachers, other classes, at the end of that first year, but in a way they had stopped being an English class and become a writing community…Erin managed to stay with this group of students for four years….their journals became the confidants of kids who had a lot to talk about and no one to talk with.”
“In these pages I hoped my children would find me when I was gone.”
“The fact is, the books are only collections of words; the motto of the nun who founded the order that educated me as a girl, Cornelia Connelly, was ‘Actions not words.’ The fallacy in that quote is that words [are] actions. They punch, tear, hurt, harm, soothe, amuse, educate, illuminate. They express ideas and feelings, and they make people feel better, and they move them to tears, and they enrage them, and they define them.”
“[Writing] is speech, observation, and understanding put down in concrete form…the fact is that everyone can do it, not just those who do it as a profession.”
“‘My students were damaged and broken,’ Erin Gruwell recalls. ‘Their lives show the power of words. Writing can allow you to write a different ending to your life.”
“When Anne’s father returned, the only member of his family to survive, he was given the diaries and was amazed at what his daughter had done.”
“Across decades and borders, across race and religion, writing connected the kids from Long Beach, who began their time in Erin Gruwell’s class with no knowledge of the Holocaust, with the girl from Amsterdam who died because of it.”
“For those students, many of them held hostage by diminished expectations and family tumult, what the diary told them was that it was possible to be in a dreadful situation and find a respite from events through putting down words…The power of the pen was that instead of destroying, wounding, it created, healed.”
“The original Freedom Writers, now decades removed from the teenagers they were in room 203, have talked to Erin Gruwell about how reading those early diary entries allows them to revisit the people they once were and consider how different are the people they have become. They were young when they wrote those entries, and now they are adults, and so they can pay forward what they wrote, and therefore what they learned. They can share that path with their own children because they took the time to record it. They can show their own children that writing offers a way to understand your heart and mind.”
“Words can resonate through generations for all of us.”
“A girl keeps a diary, and someday, perhaps after she has grown old and passed on, her daughter finds it. And there is that young woman, alive again on the page. As E.T. says to Elliott at the end of the movie, putting a gnarled finger on the boy’s forehead, ‘I’ll be right here.’”
“Her voice soft and warm and a little plaintive, she added, ‘Writing is the gift of your presence forever.’”
“Think of it this way: If you could look down right now and see words on paper, from anyone on earth or anyone who has left it, who would that be? And don’t you, as do I, wish that person had left such a thing behind? Doesn’t that argue for doing that yourself, no matter how terrifying or impossible writing May sometimes seem? It doesn’t really matter what you say. It matters that you said it. The gift of your presence forever.”
“Barry Jenkins, the director responsible for the movies ‘Moonlight’ and ‘If Beale Street Could Talk’ spoke during an interview about his work on the film adaptation of Colson Whitehead’s novel ‘The Underground Railroad.’ He said that for one pivotal scene when the camera would be panning the faces of his actors, the direction he gave them was simple: ‘Show me yourselves.’ That’s what a journal asks of a writer. Show me yourself.”
“But the liberating thing about a journal is that in most cases it is only for you. Why hide yourself from yourself?”
“Yet people still knit, and bake, and read, perhaps because in each case there is something slow, satisfying, and personal about it.”
“But in an age when we can pass along information with the push of the send button, a letter, especially a handwritten letter, becomes something different. It is something uncommon, something that arrives and makes its recipient feel special. It may even become an artifact.”
“Oh, how I miss letters. They constituted a kind of occasion, the envelope with my name and address and sometimes that old chestnut “SWAK” on the flap: sealed with a kiss. I once sat on the curb at the beach house waiting for the letters to arrive from my school friends elsewhere, letters simultaneously fragile and full, light to hold but stuffed with a sense of the girls I was missing….I guess I always figured there would be more letters, endless letters. But there aren’t.”
“Letters are different today than they were when they were a necessity. In the twenty-first century I do not send a letter because I want to tell you something. I so it because I want to give you something, something personal and long-lasting. There’s a reason why we always envision a cache of letters tied up with a ribbon. It’s because they are a gift.”
“There’s something about the time it takes to write a letter, send it off, wait for a reply, that feels mindful, purposeful.”
“It’s been too easy for my children to bounce short messages back and forth all day long, like a communications tennis match.”
“In writing a letter, we are often required to slow down, or we slow ourselves down to get it right, particularly if we’re writing to someone important to us.”
“There’s no letter saying she’s leaving for the States, and of course none once she’s arrived and call Harry a palooka in person.”
“We can only imagine the reunion! But we can imagine it, because of what’s been written down. After I finished reading those letters, I started to consider how different it would have been if the two had met during other times.”
“But for those two little girls, now grown women, [those letters] constitute an important part of the story of their lives.”
“All of those people would surely like to receive a long email but might more thoroughly appreciate a thoughtful reflection on what they have meant to you, on paper, by hand…Sometimes we assume people know how we feel, and then when we actually put it down in words, we realize how gratitude, appreciation, and love take on a larger, more lasting meaning when they are in concrete form.”
“It is blessed to write a letter, and to find it years later, and to know that, amidst the haste of existence, you yourself took the time to do something that meant so much.”
“The experience has lived inside the doctor ever since, and took her to a place she did not expect and yet embraces.”
“‘It was not my routine to write to publish,’ she says, ‘but to process.’ In a career in which lifesaving is often the goal, she believes that writing helps save her emotional life…”
“If your patient dying of prostate cancer reminds you of your grandfather, who died of that disease last summer, and each time you go into the patient’s room, you weep for your grandfather, you cannot write that in the hospital chart. We will not let you. And yet it has to be written somewhere…”
“In my life the times that I am most myself are when I am in the middle of a paragraph…Exposed, revealed, opened up. I want to open something up in the students I see.”
“Over the years they have covered so much ground, so feelingly.”
“Someday you will look at that class schedule, buried in the bottom of a box somewhere, and be able to see what courses you took. But will you be able to revive the feeling of who you were then?”
“I don’t remember exactly what was said, or who did the wheedling, but Peter wasn’t the kind of person you could wheedle, and when they came to take his typewriter away, he said no.”
“But in many ways technology also seems to have narrowed a worldview for many people, serving up only stories they already believe and opinions they always agree with.”
“You find yourself in a chat room with the sense of being connected when, at the moment of truth, you realize instead that you are alone, nose metaphorically pressed to the glass of the computer screen, in a peculiar kind of populated solitude.”
“Our language has widely sensed these two sides of man’s being alone. It has created the word ‘loneliness’ to express the pain of being alone. And it has created the word ‘solitude’ to express the glory of being alone…But that second assumes the element of choice; take that out of the equation and you have what many people may feel, even in pretty places and comfortable homes.”
“Something about an entity that is everywhere makes it feel as if it is really nowhere at all. That may be one reason why people are so painfully confessional, or so scathingly mean, online. It’s not like it’s really real. Kids used to be able to leave that behind at the end of the day, to shut the bedroom door on meanness. There is no safe place in a wired world.”
“Technology is a useful servant but a dangerous master.”
“It’s not simply that we cannot say we are finished until the work is the way we want it; we are afraid to even begin if we don’t envision eloquence on the horizon.”
“The thing is, writing is part of a chain. We spin words, for ourselves, a few others, or even the world, out of the past—not just our own, but those of the writers we have read and absorbed.”
“‘We’re not just talking about writing,’ says Eidman-Aadahl. ‘It’s about someone caring what you’re talking about, someone telling you you have something to say that’s worth hearing.’”
“‘I don’t know what you want here,’ the student said. ‘I want what you want to give me,’ the teacher replied.”
“One extensive study of writing instruction in schools found that out of thousands of assignments, only one in five ‘represented extended writing of a paragraph or more; all the rest consisted of fill-in-the-blank and short-answer exercises, and copying of information directly from the teacher’s presentations—activities that are best described as writing without composing.’ The truth is, writing without composing is stenography. Hardly the sort of work that will unearth trauma or celebrate joy or, at the very least, lead a young person to want to confide in a journal or compose a letter to a loved one.”
“I feel so strongly about teaching creative writing in schools for one simple reason: I am a writer because of teachers. When I was in eighth grade, a very erudite nun named Mother Mary Ephrem looked up from one of my papers and said, ‘You are a writer.’ I am a writer because, time and again, I handed in a paper and was told that it was good—publishable, by the standards of that one inventive educator.”
“The memoirs of writers, the behavior of friends, make clear that time and place for writing is like anything else, like whether you’re an early-to-bed person or a night owl: It is highly individual. So don’t make how it’s done an excuse. How it’s done is how you do it.”
“…surviving day by day, never dreaming that by doing so she will help some of us survive, too. She’s not really writing the story of the Holocaust, although that’s what she illuminates. She’s telling the story of one small and unremarkable life that has come to stand for millions of others, and so became remarkable.”
“So what if your story of a small, unremarkable life is read only by you, in some quiet corner, or by one or two people you love and trust to understand? If those are people who can learn from and value it, isn’t that a notable achievement, a valuable audience?”
“Sometimes people will tell me something I wrote made them feel less alone. But the fact is, I feel less alone when I write as well.”
“One of the Freedom Writers, who was homeless as a child and has written about the feelings of despair and shame, wrote ten years out of school about sharing his work with others: ‘Every time I tell my story, I reopen the wound and relive my childhood. What helps me persevere isn’t the pity people feel for me, or the praise and congratulations at the end. It is when I look into the audience and recognize the familiar pain in someone’s face as he or she connects to my story.’ So true, what he says: The process is not always easy, but the result is sometimes invaluable.”
“Somehow we have come to believe that if we are good at something it will not be difficult; that there will not be false starts, bad results, frustration, anguish. A natural, people say admiringly, and what they mean is hard things done with seeming ease, and therefore apparently without effort. I’m not sure why anyone believes this, because the notion is absurd, and not just in writing. A surgeon becomes a great surgeon by years of concentrated effort, attention, repetition. An Olympic medalist does the same routine over and over and over again. The cookbook doyenne Ina Garten, who is considered the queen of the simple, luscious meal, has a catchphrase: ‘How easy is that?’ But in an interview she once said, ‘I find cooking hard.’ She tests recipes many times, and then has assistants test them as well. It can be easy for you because it was laborious for her.”
“Or, as the novelist E.L. Doctorow said once when I told him I was going out on a book tour, ‘Oh, now you will have to pretend you know how we do what we do.”
“The ordinary stories are sometimes the most illuminating of our lives because the simply factual can lead us to the deeply philosophical. They allow us to stop time, to preserve not only who we are but who we once were.”
“Writing is a hedge against forgetting, forgetting forever.”
“The person he had once been was alive in those pages. What a gift he had left behind for those he loved! As I read that essay, I wept, not simply because of what she had lost—the journals just stop one day, and never resume—but for what I had never had.”
“In classrooms, in seminars, in books, it [history] is too often something to memorize and too seldom something to feel a part of.”
“The history people need, to understand where we have come from, what to decry and what to prize, is not a history of presidents or generals. It is the history of us, and one reason ordinary people must write is to leave their own records, to furnish the rooms of our country and our world.”
“Writing is power. Enslaved people were intentionally kept powerless. And if they could write down the facts of their lives, the casual violence, the division of families, the lists on which they appeared as property alongside furniture and rugs, what might they say?”
“And yet a personality sometimes bursts forth.”
“This is history, small-bore but indelible. This is life. If only William Dunwoody had sat down with paper and pen and told it whole…I bet he had a book inside him, that man.”
“A good novelist knows that sometimes the stuff of everyday life is the bedrock of a book a reader can walk through and live in. But the kind of people who actually live those everyday lives may feel they are not worthy of a story. They are just going to work, making meals, diapering babies, getting by, which is a kind of history but not the kind we’ve learned to record, to value, to commit to paper.”
“‘You should write all this down,’ I said, and she waved a hand as though she were waving the words away. ‘I am not a writer like you,’ she said.”
“E.L. Doctorow once famously said of writing a novel, ‘It’s like driving a car at night: you never see further than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.’”
“‘Women have constituted the most spectacular casualty of traditional history. They have made up at least half the human race; but you could never tell that by looking at the books historians write. The forgotten man is nothing to the forgotten woman.’”
“This is as much a part of history as when the territory it joined the union: perhaps more, because it comes alive in a way that a date seldom does, just as the experiences of that Somali woman who refused to write because she did not think of herself as a writer might say more about immigration than laws or statistics.”
“If those unaccustomed to the act of everyday writing can find ways to recover that urge to sit down and produce thoughts, musings, letters for their children, their friends, the future, we will not only know what happened during their lifetimes, we will know how it felt.”