How did language become meaningful to you?

[Guest]

I recall vividly the first time I understood the poetics and rhetoric of language. I was seven and at a church carnival-fair with my father. It was twilight and nearing time to go to bed. For a last bit of fun Papa threw some tennis balls at milk bottles and I was hoping for a big stuffed teddy, or at the very least a shiny Kewpie doll. He missed all but one and got a red ribbon as a consolation prize. I hid my disappointment from him while he showed me the big satin band, about two feet long and I'd guess three inches wide. It read,

So near, and yet so far.

He explained its meaning so that I understood it. In my skinny girl's body and recently come to my age-of-reason mind, I was taken aback, thrown for a loop, plunged into an epiphany. The phrase made sense to me and I wondered at it's brevity, even poetry, though I could not articulate it then.

In a twilit time, alone with my prince of a father, on a band of carmine satin, trite words writ in garish glittery gold gave me a love for the English language. (As posted on BKeeney's "Joy" thread, it was sixteen more years before I really learned to read, and therefore write.)

I would enjoy hearing how others came to know language (whether English or not) as something they could make their own, work at, play with, toss off their tongues, pens or keyboards, use to make their human isolation a bit less ordinary.

 

[Belegon]

It's great you have a specific memory

I think it is wonderful that you can remember such a clear starting point. I always loved reading and telling stories but when I first decided to try "shaping" language came with the angst and confusion of teenage love. My first poems were about the joy of discovery, the fear of rejection and the agony of loss. Remember when a kiss was more than a promise, it was a promise fulfilled?

 

[Guest]

Belegon:

Hi and welcome. How nice to have you be the first to respond. I'll read your work anon. The midwest in the late 80's, eh? I well understand how much you must appreciate CA. I've been here since 1970, in San Francisco; nearly everything I love is here.

best to you, Perdita

 

[Alex De Kok]

Ever since I learned to read, I can't remember ever not enjoying it, but I can put no clear start on when I began to understand the magic of using words, a process which is still a learning experience for me, thank goodness. No epiphany, no special day, just a lifelong growing love of language.

Alex

 

[The_Fool]

Perdita,

Reading your post sends my thoughts down some interesting, distant paths on this early morning. First off, I know that I am still learning the power and joy of expressing myself through my words and written images. I feel that I have grown as a writer in the last week, month, year, decade. Or maybe I am simply learning to appreciate what ability I have, little or not, at expressing myself to others.

I have no sense of epiphany such as you have related. I can look back and see some of the elements of my life that have shaped my love of words. I remember reading a passage from an author, the exact phrasing escapes me, but the meaning was this, in order to write well, one must first read well. I remember the first time reading an entire book by myself. I was five and it was a early reader such as one read in grade school. I was so proud of myself for reading the whole thing. Next, I skip forward to my pre-teen years. It’s difficult to remember the cause and effect relationship, but during those years I became an avid reader to the extent that I became almost completely introverted. Choosing to read rather than to spend time with my friends. Now whether I read because I had become introverted, or whether I became introverted because I read, I don’t remember and not sure I even care. But it was at that time I became a “speed” reader. I would go to the library and check the maximum number of books I could every day or two.

My senior year in high school was when I learned that my writing stood out just a little from my peers. This occurred from peer evaluation of different writing in our English class. This is also where I picked up my habit of minimal editing of my work. One of the “contests” we had was to write an Elizabethan Sonnet. I remember writing that one in Physics class in about twenty minutes. I “won” the contest. I continued to write poetry for my own pleasure on into college. It was a great party trick to use my ability to create poetry spontaneously. It’s amusing to look back on that and think on the number of times that ability also got me laid. But then I remember sharing my work with an English professor with the intent of getting some of my stuff into the annual school publication. His opinion that my work lacked a basis for realism was probably correct but it was his utter indifference that silenced my writing for over ten years. Of course I was doing a lot of reactive living in that time frame with very little opportunity for introspection with marriage, military, children and eventually going back to college to finish my degree. Perdita, I remember reading in one of your posts that you finished your degree at the age of 51. I “gave” myself my degree for my 30th birthday present, 12 years, 1 month and 25 days after I started.

What got me back into writing was being hired as a technical writer. Although the ability to be creative with ones words is limited with writing operation manuals, it still put me back to shaping words and phrases to convey meaning to others. I remember looking at my life with work, school and family and worrying just a bit about whether I was allocating my time in a way that would allow me to live and to live with myself. That and observation of others lead me to write my first poem in over ten years. That poem is on this site and is titled “Responsible Man I.” I still concern myself with how I perceive my responsibilities in life as well as the observation of others and that is why there is more than that original Responsible Man poem. I am sure there will be others.

This post is way to long but I want to close by touching on a thought that I mentioned earlier. First off, I look on my love of reading and writing and although there are milestones that I can see now, I perceive that love to be an evolution. I see it as a love that although strong for a long time, has become a love that I have learned to appreciate, comprehend and utilize much more as I grow older. Maybe this is just a sign that I am still learning about the power of words. I would be interested in the observations of those other writers that are “young at heart,” like me. I would also like to contrast this with those that have “lived” a great deal in a shorter number of years through trials of life. Interesting question, Perdita. Thank you for sending me down that train of thought.

 

[alltherage]

It all started when mommy and daddy started saying yes and no to me.

 

[Guest]

language is power

I distinctly recall writing stories on a steno pad with a pencil when I was four. My mom and dad were remodeling the bathroom and I would call out for my mom to spell the words that I wanted to use. Looking back, I am very appreciative that she did so. My two youngest daughters (5 & 4) have me spell for them now, and some days I am not as congenial as my mom was.

I remember seeing the pretty girl and the dragon in my mind's eye along with the nest with the abandoned egg. After I wrote the story of the egg being found and taken care of, my mom wanted me to draw a picture. I was so frustrated. The picture I could draw looked nothing like the one in my mind or the one I had painted with my words.

My mom is a treasure. She saved my first story and I can look at it when I am at her home. The dragon and the pretty girl are with me to this day and I still can't do them justice with a drawing.

b

thanks, perdita. must remember to memorialize all the girls' stories and pictures.

 

[oggbashan]

Having my sister teach me nursery rhymes, then my brother teaching me to read so I wouldn't bother him. He didn't know or care that at 3 years old I wasn't suppose to be able to learn to read. From then onwards no book was safe from me.

Og

PS: The real feel for language was when my brother came home from school and recited a poem he had memorised. It sounded wonderful - but was in Welsh.

 

[Guest]

This is wonderful, thank you all for your 'stories'.

Ogg: love the phrase, no book safe from me. Very manly, haha. Myself, I'd say I let them seduce me, over and over and over; and they are such constant lovers.

The_Fool: You caught my full attention. I will read your poem if you will read mine.


More, please. Perdita

 

[The_Fool]

.The_Fool: You caught my full attention. I will read your poem if you will read mine.

You got a deal....

 

[pop_54]

I recall vividly the first time I understood the poetics and rhetoric of language. I was seven and at a church carnival-fair with my father. It was twilight and nearing time to go to bed. For a last bit of fun Papa threw some tennis balls at milk bottles and I was hoping for a big stuffed teddy, or at the very least a shiny Kewpie doll. He missed all but one and got a red ribbon as a consolation prize. I hid my disappointment from him while he showed me the big satin band, about two feet long and I'd guess three inches wide. It read,

So near, and yet so far.

He explained its meaning so that I understood it. In my skinny girl's body and recently come to my age-of-reason mind, I was taken aback, thrown for a loop, plunged into an epiphany. The phrase made sense to me and I wondered at it's brevity, even poetry, though I could not articulate it then.

In a twilit time, alone with my prince of a father, on a band of carmine satin, trite words writ in garish glittery gold gave me a love for the English language. (As posted on BKeeney's "Joy" thread, it was sixteen more years before I really learned to read, and therefore write.)

I would enjoy hearing how others came to know language (whether English or not) as something they could make their own, work at, play with, toss off their tongues, pens or keyboards, use to make their human isolation a bit less ordinary.

Ha!! Purdy darling, you’re going to regret asking this one, pops in a reflective and informative mood; I feel a life story coming on.

As a kid I was a bit on the Dyslexic side, not so much reading and understanding books and the like where I had time to study the words and string it all together at my own pace, but more in the forced pace of schooling.

Writing essays in a given time, trying to read the contents of the blackboard before it was wiped away by an impatient teacher, this is where I was f**ked, and wound up accused of being thick and an idiot by all concerned, teachers and classmates alike.
In 1950’s Britain, Dyslexia wasn’t a recognised affliction, if you couldn’t read or write at the pace dictated you were an idiot not fit to spend time with, and told so in no uncertain terms.

I was lucky in a way being the youngest of 7 siblings, 4 brothers and 2 sisters, and me the baby of the family; I inherited a vast archive of books to study at my own pace at home.
All quality hard-backs over 250 of them as I remember, arranged neatly on bookshelves in the little box-room on the landing, dusted down regularly by my old mum.
Proud of her book collection was my old mum, working class folks didn’t usually own such expensive collectables, and very few had kids who went to uni.

Such classics as ‘The book of Knowledge’ Encyclopaedia set, 13 hard leather bound Volumes written in the 1920’s containing vast swathes of information and detail still relevant today a lot of it. Most importantly written in proper English of the 1920’s, not an abbreviation, internationalism, or slang word in evidence. 12 Volumes of priceless information, and a lovely complex index Volume, I used to play a game, think of a subject, look it up in the index, then try to find it in one of the main Volumes from the info in the index, took bloody ages sometimes.

Classic novels and children’s stories like ‘Robinson Crusoe’, ‘Swiss family Robinson’, ‘Tom Sawyer’, a complete set of Dickens novels along with adult adventure novels.
A bit later paperbacks were added to the collection by the adults of the family, mum’s mystery and suspense tales, brother’s sci-fi stuff including the complete early edition Asimov trilogy among others.
Also stored there a load of text books and Journals from my brother’s and sister’s school days, some quite highbrow, 3 of my siblings having made it to Grammar schools or High school, (that means, ‘High’ in Britain), and on to Cambridge university in one case.

My brothers and sister still living at home helped me as best they could, but patience was short with girlfriends and boyfriend to go out and see, and it was self-help a lot of the time.
At about age 13 an uncle recognised my problem and took me under his wing, my old friend and mentor, Uncle Gilbert, instructed me in the best ways to appreciate the English language in spite of my little problem.
Gilbert was actually a very highly educated guy with degrees in stuff, and a BSc thingie after his name, he was also a bit of a lad, still single in his fifties and I seem to remember having a lot of different aunties from his direction, most a lot younger than him, strange that.
In about a year or so between age 13 and 15 (1961-3) I learned more of my native tongue and how to read/write it as best I could than I had in the previous 9 yrs of schooling.
Like Oggie, during that period no book was safe from my advances and possession, at least until it had be read a couple of times.

Then of course I hit 15, left school, got a job, started getting laid, started getting stoned, and that was the end of my education for that time being.

So I suppose really my appreciation of my language was cemented in 1962’ish when I finally managed to read and write such complex words as Dyslexia without having to think too hard about it.
Who the f**k invented that bloody word anyway to describe some poor bastard who has problems stringing words and sentences together, you go get lashed out of your head on booze and try writing it down under similar circumstances.

Byee: pops………xxx

PS: Nice to have you on top of me for a change Purdy darling, wink.

 

[Guest]

Re: Re: How did language become meaningful to you?

Nice to have you on top of me for a change Purdy darling, wink.

Pops, you know I dig you reflective. Good to be on top always.

from me and the little one

 

[Svenskaflicka]

I've enjoyed the wonders of being able to read since I was 5, and I remember writing long novels about horses when I was 9 or 10. It wasn't until my late teens, however, that I started attending Writers' Classes, and really began to enjoy painting pictures with words.

It's weird, though. After so many years of writing, the most popular the one I've managed to produce so far, is a story I wrote for my dad when I was perhaps 7 or 8. It's about a car named Hubert, whose owner meets a girl and neglects poor Hubert, and then the girl sells the cute little car, and it's so sad, so sad, but then the man finds Hubert at a car show, and buys him back, and they live happily ever after.

THIS is the story everyone likes the best. There is some kind of irony in here, somewhere, I just don't know what it is. Perhaps it lays in the fact that I've always matured early; learned to read at 5, had my first period at 11, am senile at 27... My career as an author apparently PEAKED at 7...

 

[Lovepotion69]

I remember learning to read and write very fast. My parents were probably happy as they didn't need to read to me every night then. Since then I just kept borrowing dad's old books, bought heaps of books and fell in love with the library.

When writing in school the teachers would always write or say that my writing was very "personal". I never could figure out if that was a positive or negative thing. ha ha

At the age of 9 I started to play around on my dad's typewriter, learnt to type and at 10 put together my own newspaper. Then over the next few years I'd put together papers now and then.

Starting 7th grade made me decide that my "personal" writing was a positive thing, and that's when I started to consider journalism. I wrote a lot of short stories then, in fact my imagination was ten times better than nowadays. Darn.

 

[Weird Harold]

I recall vividly the first time I understood the poetics and rhetoric of language. ...

I would enjoy hearing how others came to know language (whether English or not) as something they could make their own, work at, play with, toss off their tongues, pens or keyboards, use to make their human isolation a bit less ordinary.

I can't remember a time when I didn't love words -- how they're used and how each has specific meanings and connotations.

I think the fact that my father was an inveterate punster and loved to mangle the languge for humor and education.

One of the earliest memories of his playng with language is driving down the road and coming to a sign that said "Stop Ahead." Dad would reach over to whichever child was riding in the front and hold their head still and point out that that's what the sign told him to do -- Stop A Head.

Another memory is his use of "Skissers" for "Scissors" with the explanation that he never learned how to pronounce "scissors" right because it was spelled funny (while pronouncing it properly in the explanation.)

There was just never a time when the vagaries of the English language and the rich mine of humor they provide were NOT part of my world.

 

[Guest]

BUMP!

We have some interesting new people; I'm still interested in more responses.

regards, Perdita

 

[agedmac]

reading and good reading

I read constantly as a little kid. Then as a pre-teen, I was lucky that my local librarian didn't think it right that I couldn't read adult books. But it was all junk until eighth grade. And T.B. White's take on the Camelot tradition. I still remember sitting there reading it all through in one night and thinking, "My God, THIS is writing!"

Language on a personal level.

Realizing that Bob Dylan (sorry, dating myself) had some amazing things to say about life in his songs. Things that moved me.

And then Paul Simon spoke to my mid-teenaged angst with "I am a Rock, I am an Island" which turned me quickly to John Dunne and wondering why I had avoided poetry!

 

[Guest]

Re: reading and good reading

And then Paul Simon spoke to my mid-teenaged angst with "I am a Rock, I am an Island" which turned me quickly to John Dunne and wondering why I had avoided poetry!

Mac, that's amazing. a. that a pop song turned you to Donne; b. that you turned to Donne as a teen.

Very impressed, and where were boys like you when I was haunting libraries and listen to Dylan (when he was nobody)?!

Perdita

 

[agedmac]

Re: Re: reading and good reading

Mac, that's amazing. a. that a pop song turned you to Donne; b. that you turned to Donne as a teen.

Very impressed, and where were boys like you when I was haunting libraries and listen to Dylan (when he was nobody)?!

Perdita

Oh I was there. The scared boy in the corner, reading constantly and wondering, "Do any of these girls feel the way I do?"

 

[Guest]

Re: Re: Re: reading and good reading

Oh I was there. The scared boy in the corner, reading constantly and wondering, "Do any of these girls feel the way I do?"

Gawd, youth is soooooooooo wasted on the young; but we don't get it then of course.

your experienced pal, Perdita

 

[deliciously_naughty]

I think having my mom read books to me was the strongest catalyst to my appreciation for language. At a young age I learned that language was the key to communication and I had a deep urge to communicate.

I remember my joy in learning alliteration...the idea of An Alligator Ate Apples made me giggle. Rhyming also inspired me to play with language. I loved constructing stories, although at age 3/4, my stories were only about 4 sentences long, I was encouraged to keep making them up.

Once I learned to read, I found joy in how the stories were written...the various uses of words...the pictures the words inspired in my head enchanted me.

Thus began a lifelong love affair with the written word that has been longer and more meaningful than any other relationship I've yet to have.

 

[champagne1982]

Like many of you, I don't remember a day I couldn't read. It is as natural as breathing. I wrote a story about a snowman in a wintry field in third grade. I was very proud because the principal thought it worthy of a place on the "ART WALL". My mother has it somewhere. My teachers all know that I will produce my written assignments on time even though I strive to procrastinate. It seems I can't go very long between bursts of creativity. I carry stories around in my head always. Sometimes, my muse haunts me until I sit, my fingers flying over the keyboard, producing the image I see in a story or verse. I pride myself in my facility with the English language, even though publicly, I'll most often disparage my talent by remarking that I've been speaking it all my life.
The beauty of prose is only seconded by that in music. Long may you have eyes to read and ears to hear.