The Therapeutic Use of Prose

Write a letter, my counselor advised, Be as harsh as you like. Don't hold back. Put it all out there.
And then? I asked hesitantly.
Then, tear it to bits and throw it away, she said with a wise and kindly smile.

I've written a lot of letters since then, pouring out feelings on paper, being brutally honest and not caring what harm I might cause. And at the end of each one, I read it over, edit it, and tear it to shreds. It's like sucking the venom out of a snakebite, drawing out the poison and destroying it - you have to be careful not to swallow and while it doesn't usually resolve problems, it does clarify them and help me regain perspective - it buys me some time to calm down and think rather than lash out with whatever thought comes into my head.

I love language and the images it can conjure, the memories it can stir up, the healing it can bring. I love analogies and metaphors, finding the right word or phrase to express an idea or a feeling. I love the challenge of vocabulary and free expression, the delicacy of tact and the bite of sarcasm. If you make it a habit to think before you speak, your words are less likely to turn on you - as a general rule, it's better to regret what you didn't say than what you can't take back - most of us are far more clever twenty minutes later anyway. Words have color and texture and imagery for me. I read, play scrabble, do crosswords, and write to be in their company. I listen to folk singers and other songwriters because they seem to have a truly special connection to language, like poets and great novelists.

Listening to the rugged, silver haired, handsome man on stage tell sweet stories about his daddy as his fingers almost unconsciously wander over the guitar strings, I feel that connection - it's made of humor and self deprecation, humility and a touch of satire, of six decades of life experience related with a soft, southern drawl and a whimsical grin. He may look like a Kenny Rogers riverboat gambler but his soul is made of poetry and prose and he captures his audience like honey captures bees. He is unafraid of the words or their source and enchantment falls over us like snow.

Words do not always obey but they are always happy to serve you. I chase after them uselessly until, unbidden, they come. If I had his gift, I think to myself, they would chase after me, begging to be written down and put into song.