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The Best Writing I Ever Did
by Douglas S. Johnson
"do everything with your whole heart, because you never know what influence it will have." I have tried to take this advice every time I sit down to work on an essay, a poem or a short story, hoping to leave behind something of value when I depart from this earth and desiring also that something I put down upon the page will alter someone's life for the better while I am still around to know about it.
I have found, however, that "putting one's heart into one's work" does not always mean sweating over every line and making certain that every word is perfectly chosen, and this was illustrated for me recently by a situation that caused me to understand heartfelt human communication a little better and perhaps prompted me to do some of the best writing I ever did.
Being a writer, I am an observer, a greedy hoarder of detail, and so I always have my eyes open, and I am always studying the actions and character of others; as a college instructor, I must be concerned not only with the education but also the well-being of those who come into my classroom. Taken together, these roles, observer and nurturer, make for some interesting connections with many different people of varied ages, cultures and backgrounds, and I find that observing and caring commingled can bring me into close contact with some very worthwhile individuals.
She enrolled in my Writing 101 course in the winter of the year and at once displayed a marked talent for the written word and made insightful comments in class discussions. She was personable, outgoing and well-liked by her classmates. Around the sixth week of the quarter, however, I noticed a change, subtle at first, but a change that indicated that something was deeply troubling this lovely young woman.
I, who have at times myself suffered cruelly at the hands of the great Gorgon called Clinical Depression, recognized the hallmarks of this disorder in the changed features and demeanor of this student. Her countenance became wan, and there were dark circles under her eyes; her remarks, when she made them now, lacked the ebullience and insight they had possessed before, and she began to fall asleep in the middle of class.
At first, I didn't know what to do. I have found that helping, especially when it comes to someone who is in the throes of a precarious emotional state, can be a delicate affair to manage at best; throw in the fact that an instructor needs to maintain a certain amount of professional distance and then add the possibility for what Freudians used to term "transference," and the thought of stepping into a student's private life can seem daunting at the very least. I also had to wonder whether or not she would want my assistance and if she might think I was encroaching upon her personal space.
For several days, I watched her sleepwalk into and out of my classroom; I watched the sentence structure, spelling and sense in her daily writings steadily unravel; I watched her twice erupt spontaneously into tears. Surely she had someone to talk to and from whom she could draw comfort, I told myself; such a pretty and vivacious person could not be alone in life. Still, I felt the nagging need to reach out, and, caught between the idea of letting her go toward God knows what and reaching out and risking a reproach, I chose the latter. At last, I decided to communicate with her through the daily writings, which were always graded and then handed back at the beginning of the next class period.
The notes I wrote at the bottom of her graded assignments began very simply, the first little more than a third-rate Hallmark, a ludicrous smiley face with the words "Hang In There!" scrawled below. When I saw that this seemed to please her and that she opened up a bit more in class on mornings when she received them, the notes became more frequent and grew more personal, the last nearly a full letter in which I explained that I had been through similar emotional straits and in which I told her how much I, and no doubt many others, cared for her as a person.
On the Friday of that week, a morning on which she seemed so much more her old self again, I finally got up the nerve to stop her outside the classroom to ask how she was, and before we finished talking, she told me that sometimes the notes I wrote to her helped get her through the day and that having someone express concern and compassion helped her keep herself balanced when she came dangerously close to the point where she believed that no one cared about anyone else and that there was scant little that made existing worthwhile. She commented on the lack of expression of care and understanding in the world in general and in the collegiate environment in particular, and I assured her she could turn to me from that point on whenever she needed. Then, she also assured me that she had begun to get professional help for her problem. Breaking my rule about physical contact with students of the opposite sex, I embraced her, and she went on her way. After that, she seemed to come up out of her downward spiral, no doubt greatly aided by her medication and therapy; spring came, and with it the chance for new life and hope.
I do not pretend that my notes to her were all she had in the way of emotional support; no doubt she had many other sources in the way of family and friends. Even still, she had said they had made a difference, that they had, in some way, renewed her faith and hope in the midst of a cold and lonely winter world, and I felt very happy about those uncomplicated, unrefined words I had penned to her. On the way home from work that same day I spoke with her after class, I thought that it was somewhat ironic that I, one who labors so over essays and short stories and poems, should have such reward from a few dashed off lines of love and encouragement.
I always teach what the British philosopher Francis Bacon wrote: "reading makes a full man; conversation makes a ready man; and writing makes an exact man," accentuating, of course, the final third of this quotation; and while there is much truth in this statement, we must never be overcome by the need for our communication, be it written or spoken, to be perfect in every wise before we submit it to our readers or listeners. In fact, it seems to me now that good writing is not just precise writing; it is writing done with a benevolent intent, and perhaps it might even be said that this benevolent intent should be resident in everything that we undertake, much as Arabic thinker Kahlil Gibran instructed.
I know that I will never win a Pulitzer for them, and I know that they will never be widely read or proclaimed for their brilliance, and I don't suppose anyone would praise them even for their conciseness, but if those few simple notes helped another human being hold onto fast-fleeting hope during a time when all seemed lost, then I would have to say that in that regard they are the best writing I ever did.
1996
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