Write your heart out
by peggy tabor millin

When I began leading journaling groups six years ago, I had no conception of the healing energy that would be unleashed. After all, I facilitated writing classes, not therapeutic support groups. Over time, however, I happened on the place where writing and healing overlap. A place I now call Writing Practice. When we focus on Writing Practice, healing occurs without effort or intent. In my Writing Practice groups, I have seen shy women open up, depressed women take charge of their lives, ill women maintain wellness for longer periods of time, and grieving women find solace. All this occurs while we focus on writing from our hearts, telling our stories, and listening to one another.

Overcoming fear
Writing and what it implies—that our deepest thoughts will be read and therefore judged by someone else—provokes anxiety and fear greater than any I've seen related to math, the other academic fear producer.

Over and over, I hear stories of how enrollment in a creative writing class or workshop destroyed confidence in the ability to write creatively. These stories are similar to my own, although I'll admit I've never heard anyone else admit to carrying their fear to such absurdity as I.

I enrolled in a creative writing class at UC, Berkeley, in the sixties. The class met in one of the oldest lecture halls, one filled with rows of wooden chairs that squeaked when you pulled the seat down, and small tables you pulled up from the side that clanked when they snapped into place. The room had windows, but I still remember it as dark, perhaps because cypress and juniper bushes shrouded the dirty windows.

At least a hundred students enrolled in this class. I don't remember the professor, but he was probably someone famous. After all, my physics 101 class was taught by Edward Teller, who helped develop thermonuclear energy, and that didn't mean I learned physics. In the creative writing course, I felt I was expected to know how to write creatively before I came to the class. Like many students, my creative writing was limited to BSing my way through essay exams. I didn't really know what creative writing meant, and in the anonymity of a hundred students, I wasn't enlightened.

What I learned in the class was how painful it is to receive negative criticism for something you've never been taught (or even encouraged) to do. I also learned I couldn't be a creative writer and should be ashamed of myself for trying.

In the thirty years that followed, I wrote magazine articles, grants, press releases, training manuals, and stacks of letters to family and friends. I edited books for publishers. I received praise for my efforts, but continued to feel unworthy.

The year I wrote "writer" in the space beside "mother's occupation" on my son's college application form, I expected the FBI to arrest me for fraud. About the same time I bought a writing magazine in an airport and was so frightened someone might ask me if I were a writer, I hid the magazine as if it were hard porn. I am serious. I did this.

In the nineties, I took the leap again and enrolled in a creative writing class at UNCA with Tommy Hays. Another ugly room, but only twenty students enrolled, three nontraditional (which means over forty), and best of all, we had a teacher who cared. I wrote my first short story. Tommy suggested I submit it for publication. My self-confidence rose, perhaps not to the stars, but at least to tree top level.

Determined to learn my craft, I wanted to dive in to my writing. The Destiny Fairy had another idea and delivered it with a wallop to be sure I received the message.

My friend Dee invited me to join a circle of friends meeting to empower their individual dreams by sharing them with the group. This would be the first time I said, without qualification, to a group, "I am a writer." So, I took my sweet, tender shoot of a dream and held it out for all to see. (If I had not been so blinded by my desire, I would have known the way to fulfill dreams is to nurture them quietly until they have strong roots.)

After the ceremony, a woman approached me while I was speaking to my friend Kay. The woman complemented me on my passion and assured me my dream would come true. I replied, "I want to do this before I die." Kay turned on me with vehemence and said, "Don't say that!"

Her words seemed to trigger a hundred lifetimes of being told not to speak, to hold in my truth, to adapt and adjust my thoughts so as not to offend. I felt physically attacked; my body turned in on itself. I left and drove home. The wound that Kay opened was immense and I fell into depression. The confidence, certainty, and faith in the dream disappeared. As surely as I had depended on Tommy to give it to me, I allowed Kay to sweep it away.

My heart, however, in league with the Destiny Fairy, nudged and hollered something along the lines of "our gifts are revealed in our greatest losses." Because of my wound, I felt impelled to support other women who wanted to write. I began teaching the journaling classes that evolved into Writing Practice. And, I began again to write.

Writing and healing
Aware of the healing energy in my groups, but unable to formulate what I was seeing, I was thrilled two years ago, to hear a short blip on NPR: research proved writing was good for your health. James W. Pennebaker had compiled evidence that writing, particularly about critical events in one's life, enhances the immune system. In his book Opening Up, he summarizes by saying "Writing about emotional upheavals has been found to improve the physical and mental health of grade-school children and nursing home residents, arthritis sufferers, medical school students, maximum security prisoners, new mothers, and rape victims. Not only are there benefits to health, but writing about emotional topics has been found to reduce anxiety and depression, improve grades, and…aid people in securing new jobs." Writing may also reduce grieving time.

Pennebaker suggests it is the translation of emotions into language that does the trick. Although talking about our traumas also helps, it is harder to talk without someone to listen. In general, we have no such compunction about writing without a reader. In fact, believing no one will read it may make writing easier. To impact the immune system, it doesn't matter whether anyone hears or reads the story, what the trauma was or how long ago it happened. The effect is most measurable, however, when the event hasn't been talked about. Although the research was done on traumatic events, Pennebaker believes, and I agree, writing about daily issues and problems has the same health benefits.

The miraculous connection between writing and the immune system results from cracking through inhibition. It seems that when we don't speak the truth of our experience, we inhibit our emotions, and that inhibits our immune function. Keeping secrets and maintaining denial require physical energy, energy our bodies could use in healthier ways were it available. Not only does inhibition have physiological consequences, it precludes translating our experience into language. And, it is through language that we organize our experiences into coherent stories making them smaller and easier to deal with. Writing moves us toward understanding and resolution.

The research Pennebaker reports has all been done on conscious, yet unspoken, memories. What he describes is what many people do in a personal journal or through morning pages as prescribed by Julia Cameron in The Artist's Way. I journal to work through current issues, concretize immediate concerns, and record activities and dreams. I empty the garbage, so to speak, so I can get on with my life.

Personal journaling is the work of the conscious mind. The emotions are engaged, but the mind is busy analyzing, reasoning, and resolving. Obviously, this emptying out positively impacts our health.

How to write from the heart
In contrast to journaling, which may not access repressed memories inaccessible to the conscious mind, Writing Practice bypasses the mind and springs from the heart. The heart leads us into the shadows, deep crevices of subconscious memory. It surprises us, revealing thoughts and emotions we didn't know we had. Because our conscious mind, our inhibitor, is disengaged, bold truths appear like rabbits from magician's hats. We tap into the well of creativity and truth deep within ourselves. As we practice going to the well over and over, we gain self-knowledge, confidence, and acceptance. We go to the well. We listen to other people's stories. We learn to accept the commonality and diversity of both experience and writing style. Our writing improves. Descriptions become more apt, nouns and verbs grow concrete and precise. Inside we evolve; yet the growth arises from the writing, not from any effort to change. The heart is in charge. The heart meets us where we are and guides us to the next step, as far and as deep as we are ready to go. The heart is always willing to take a risk in pursuit of love, healing, and truth. And, we can trust the heart not to push us beyond where we want to go.

In my Writing Practice groups, prompts trigger associations. The prompt may be a word (tomato, skating, dress), a photograph, or a poem. The instruction is to put pen to paper and write for the duration, usually ten to twenty minutes. Keep the pen moving even if what you write is "I don't know what to write." Don't edit. Keep writing. There are no rules except to keep the pen moving. You can write fiction, memoir, or poetry. You can forget the prompt and write whatever is on your mind. You may begin with the prompt and end up some place quite different.

Writing about a tomato may take you into sensory exploration of the fruit, a memory of your grandmother canning, or a traumatic event while working at a tomato packing plant. Each time you write about "tomato" different associations and memories will be triggered. You will never run out of subjects for writing.

Although no one in my groups is ever required to read, few remain silent for more than a few classes. Reading sometimes brings up emotion the writer was unaware of during the writing. I think there are three levels of transformation or healing: when we write, when we read, and when we feel our story was received and honored.

If you can't join a group, find a friend to write and read with. No critiquing (this is off the cuff writing; leave the editor on the front porch). No problem solving of either writing or personal issues. If your partner cries, let her cry, but be there and pay attention. Limit remarks to specific images or words you liked or to the emotions these arouse in you. The exchange is like this 8, the symbol of infinity, of giving and receiving.

The common elements I see in my group members have nothing to do with their writing. The women come from diverse backgrounds: some are nonfiction writers by profession, one has had short stories published by prestigious national magazines, many have never written except in personal journals, some haven't even done that. Ages range from early thirties to mid eighties. I have people raised in the Bronx, in Swannanoa, in Mexico, and in California, from different social strata, educational backgrounds, and family histories.

The ones who come and keep coming back share these qualities:
    · willingness, at least unconsciously, to take risks
    · openness to personal honesty
    · ability to listen with a nonjudgmental ear
    · desire to hear and honor each story of each person present

Writing Practice is practice. It means we're not perfect, we're trying it on. We're following the pen to discover where we're going. We're writing direct, honest prose, laying the groundwork for everything else we may want to write—short stories, novels, columns, family histories, memoirs. We're writing from our hearts and finding it juicy and good.

Peggy Tabor Millin, MA, is a writer who has facilitated personal growth and writing workshops for the past 20 years. Through her business, ClarityWorks, she leads writing practice groups for women, writing workshops and retreats. She also offers individualized writing, coaching, and editing services.
Contact her at info@clarityworksonline.com.