I acquired English through its similarities to French and German which I speak. That is, by osmosis. At one point, I realized I was grasping more and more not only individual bits and pieces but the very structure of it and going effortlessly deeper. It was like watching the morning mist disappear, revealing the landscape behind. A pleasant surprise.
Early on, no one really believed me when I said I didn’t know any English, not even my mother who was convinced that all I needed was to spend a couple of months in England to become fluent. And not even my bosses who dictated me their business letters or, later, let me write them by myself which I somehow managed to do.
True, I’ve got the feel of the overall structure as a kind of musical sensation specific to this language.
But this is an uneven development. While I am becoming more fluent in writing I’m still struggling with speaking. (Particularly when expressing the most ordinary things.) An oddity as frustrating as trying to tie shoe strings of which one end is extremely short!
Writing is my thing. It always has been. In writing there is no time, or it is I who set the rhythm with no outside pressure. In contrast, as soon as I open my mouth the gap is there: the discrepancy between the active and passive processing of language. Becoming paralyzingly self-conscious, I give up without even trying.
Yet all those mistakes I make –and used to hate- are not only inevitable, they are telling milestones indicating one is moving on even if slithering. And where there is movement, there also exists a potential for improvement.
And this is how I came to appreciate, even to love them.
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