Just Words

There seems to be a persistent general belief that there is some sort of great divide between numbers and words. There are Number People and there are Word People. My experience, however, has shown that there’s much more overlap than many people care to admit, and I tend to believe that Number People who shy away from words and Word People who shy away from numbers do so only because they haven’t really experienced the other side. This is based primarily on my rather limited observation that math education people tend to have an inordinate fascination with linguistics, and linguistics people tend to be less terrified of mathematics than the general population. I am certain that there is something similar underlying it all (and in fact, I would probably include music in whatever that something is as well).

I myself have inadvertently stumbled into taking the Numbers Route. I quite enjoy it, but words and language in general have fascinated me for a long time, in many forms. I was a speech-language pathology major for about a year, and I took a required language development class that introduced me in a rather indirect way to the wonderful world of linguistics. I was the one who initially encouraged my brother to think about linguistics back when he was choosing a major after we had several conversations in which language was the topic of discussion. I have been envious of him ever since as he has taken all the classes I wish I could have taken. I love learning about how people use language, and about how language evolves. I love words. I like coming across new words and making connections with old words. My favorite 100 Hour Board questions to answer were questions involving word origins—I always thought they were the most fun to research and the most fun to write (even more than running questions). I love to read and see how other people use language. And I love poetry because it seems to me that poetry is all about playing with words.



I have long said that if I were to go back in time and choose a completely different major, I would choose linguistics. There is no doubt in my mind about that. I have even seriously thought about what I could do to justify taking linguistics courses, and I am thrilled at the thought that I just might be able to pull it off in my grad program here. In fact, even in math education I’ve managed to shift myself towards the language end of things. My master’s thesis had to do with students learning to write about mathematical concepts in a course for elementary education majors and I took a graduate-level content area literacy course in conjunction with that research. Here at Michigan I’m supposed to get involved with a research project involving literacy in math and science education next semester, and the course I just added last week is a literacy course, a broad introduction to history and theory in literacy.

Today in church I was talking to a new friend who is finishing up her BYU degree in English while living out here and preparing to apply to grad schools. I learned that she wrote stories and poetry and was working on a novel and as often happens when I talk to such people I found myself feeling a little sad that I have never pursued my own writing abilities. I dabbled in writing throughout elementary and secondary school, filling up notebooks with sketches and beginnings of stories I never quite finished during particularly boring classes (which is to say most of them). I was an editor for our high school’s literary journal for four years. I even took a creative writing class one semester just because I had room in my schedule (but I didn’t write anything particularly worthwhile). I discovered poetry in my AP English Lit class (much to my delight) and thus expanded my literary reach. I certainly wasn’t the best writer at my school. But I wasn’t half bad.

Then I went to college and it just…ended. Not entirely. I still have this urge to write and every once in awhile I will set something down on paper, but I don’t have a lot to show for the last seven years. In fact, my most prolific period was this past summer when I finally accepted Ambrosia’s invitation to come to Poetasters and suddenly had a reason not only to write but to actually finish and revise my poetry. And calling that period “prolific” isn’t saying much since I only managed to churn out a half dozen poems during the entire four months.

I sometimes think I ought to do something about this sad state of my writing. I am quite certain I could never pull off a novel if I spent my entire life working on it. But I would love to play around with words more than I do, do some character sketches, write a short story or two, expand my poetry writing beyond the free verse I am most comfortable with.

There have been many things I have strayed away from over the year—my piano- and organ-playing skills have plateaued, my artistic ability has been relegated to drawings of pancakes on ward pancake breakfast/tailgate party/missionary effort signs (although I did get compliments on my pancakes—I probably had a little too much fun with my roommate’s oil pastels), and my Spanish is in deep decline. But I don’t always regret what I leave behind because I can’t do it all. I do, however, regret leaving behind writing, and I keep thinking I ought to pick it up again, somehow. I’ve been thinking this for years and have not done anything about it. This is partly because I am not the most talented writer in the world and I get intimidated because I feel like if I begin to write again I’ll be subjecting myself to a standard that I cannot possibly reach.

And then there’s the perpetual dilemma of time. There is simply not enough time to do everything I want to do. I can’t take voice lessons, practice the piano and the organ, improve my artistic skills, pick up writing again, learn Russian, train for marathons, read everything I’ve ever wanted to read, and get a PhD all at the same time while also maintaining a social life, keeping in contact with friends and family, reading my scriptures daily, and enjoying normal sleep patterns. I just have to pick and choose, and unfortunately that means leaving out just about everything that is not in some way essential to my existence and well-being.

Ah, well. Such is life.