Learning to Write Right

“I’m someone who likes plowing new ground, then walking away from it.  I get bored easily. For me, the big thrill comes with the discovering.” – Abraham Maslow 
It is winter at the beach. Silence reigns on our neighborhood blocks as Florida seduces, “Come to me!” 
For those of us lucky enough to remain local, this is the time for quiet pursuits and internal growth. Self-actualization is the fruit of the creative process.
We feel most like our real selves at our most creative.  Dr. Abraham Maslow taught that there is a correlation between psychological health and ordinary creativity, which involves cheerfulness and openness to new experience. 
Creative people feel happy and secure. They do not cling to the familiar but remain open to what is in front of them.
Creativity tastes as good to me as freshly popped popcorn. This winter, creativity for me means going back to my future.
At 13, I was selected for a special course on creative essay writing. We threw away the grammar books and wrote of our lives, of our dreams, and of the internal beasties that visited our barely adolescent hearts as we slept.
At the end of the year, our teacher Mr. Richter asked us to turn in the book of notes we had carefully assembled on how to write. “If you don’t have it inside, your notes can’t help.”
I cherished that book and wanted to scream at him but I was too shy. Now I know he was brutally correct.
At 15, the school newspaper invited me to write my own column. I had no clue why, but it sounded like fun.
I called it “The Peripatetic Reporter” because my father liked that name. I wrote about making life work like I do for the Herald.
I did not feel like a big deal and was certain that nobody read it, just like I am surprised when neighbors tell me they follow me in the Herald.
I thought about becoming a writer, but wanted to be sure I could earn a living, so I pursued my second love. I became a psychologist but promised myself that I would later return to my first love, writing what really matters.
I decided that I needed to wait till age 50 because, by then, I should have something to write about.
In the meantime, to get ahead in the world of PhDs, I had to learn to write academese, a special language shared by people who prefer big words to simple truths. It was easy enough but it did not delight me. 
I published three books, and 40 invited chapters and journal articles. Then, as I neared 60, I said, “Basta,”enough hiding behind intelligence.
I wanted to write stories about psychotherapy, but I was busy doing a career I loved and had no time to feel stupid in print. I promised myself that one day I would learn to write what really matters.
Five years ago, I unearthed a Beth Kephart workshop at the University of Pennsylvania, where I teach. Kephart is an awarded memoirist and a devoted teacher.
Twenty of us gathered in the room off the café at the Penn bookstore. I was sure those around me knew more than I did.
As Kephart sat on the desk in front of us, she said reassuring words, then pulled out a few ties and asked us to write about a deeply meaningful experience we had lived that involved ties.
I immediately remembered the deep loss I l felt after my elegantly handsome first husband died. His collection of ties was as European as he was. Nobody could ever wear them as he did.
I wrote for three minutes, immersed in my innards, trying to get them onto the computer before Kephart said to stop. For the first time since age 13, it felt like I was writing right. I emerged feeling completely ignorant and hungry to learn. 
In her teaching text, Kephart told me to put my narcissism in a closet. She told me to soften my voice, to speak only the truth, to make myself vulnerable.
What she asked of me was scary stuff, but she offered hope when she said I could write about universal questions from the frame of my own life. I knew she was correct. That meant that, if I could learn what she taught, I would be able to write true stories of psychotherapy.
The idea of writing the stories of how clients transform their lives in psychotherapy enthralls me so I cleared time to try to learn to write right. Serious experts like Kephart, Marion Roach Smith, Michelle Wolf, and Betsy Rappaport help me learn.  Despite their cheery encouragement, I come away feeling like a rank beginner. Because I am.
It may take me quite some time to be a good enough writer, and it will have been worth every minute. The fun is in the becoming.
To consider: What gets your creative juices flowing in dead of winter? Do you pursue this interest? Why? Why not?
To explore: Beth Kephart. Handling the Truth. Gotham Books, 2013. New York
Find Dr. Judith Coche at Rittenhouse Square and in Stone Harbor, helping clients grow creative lives alone and with those they love. Reach her through www.cochecenter.com.