Writing Emotion

The first in a series on the cognitive benefits of writing

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The ‘most wonderful time of the year’ has again passed, which is destabilizing regardless of whether you find the holidays something to be enjoyed or endured.

For enjoyers, it is dispiriting to dismantle the tree and tuck away the tinsel for another twelvemonth.

Endurers, meanwhile, may be struggling with exhaustion, overwhelm or isolation.

Many of us fall between the camps and start the year with a gluey mix of happy and sad proofing in our gut.

This January has been especially raw. Two months ago, floods killed hundreds of people and washed away whole villages within a few kilometers of my house. Now, some of my friends are enduring record cold snaps while others have been burned out by the LA fires. The world feels apocalyptic: literally, frighteningly.

It almost feels frivolous to be writing about writing. Would it be better to grab a shovel or chain myself to the gates of an oil refinery?

Maybe. But there are others who can and will do that — and better than I. Writing is my forte, and per last week’s newsletter, I’m increasingly convinced we accomplish the most by being who we are.

Therapeutic writing

One of the pioneers of writing as a therapeutic tool is Dr James Pennebaker. His research, over decades, has explore the interplay between emotion and language and — specifically — how writing helps people cope with difficulties.

In a 1993 article, Pennebaker reported:

Analyses of subjects’ writing about traumas indicate that those whose health improves most tend to use a higher proportion of negative emotion words than positive emotion words. Independent of verbal emotion expression, the increasing use of insight, causal, and associated cognitive words over several days of writing is linked to health improvement. That is, the construction of a coherent story together with the expression of negative emotions work together in therapeutic writing. (Pennebaker, 1993)

Note: using ‘a higher proportion of negative emotion words’ yielded greater benefits. In other words, the mania for ‘positivity’ is likely counter-productive to processing trauma. If you’re digging through muck, acknowledge the muck. Its muckiness. That it stinks like hell and you’d rather be anyplace else.

The second point Pennebaker raises is the importance of ‘a coherent story.’ Multiple researchers and studies echo the finding that putting an experience into writing changes one’s relationship to it.

Peterkin and Prettyman (2009) found: “the ability to construct well-organised and meaningful narratives is an important skill for successfully coping with life stressors and trauma, enabling individuals to create coherent stories from fractured memories and to facilitate cognitive processing of traumatic events.”

Accessible

Exercise is proven to ameliorate trauma and support mental well-being, but not everyone has the physical capacity or a suitable environment.

Talk therapy can be wonderfully helpful, but not everyone can find a good practitioner.

Art, animals and pharmaceuticals are other popular therapeutic interventions, but again, not always in reach.

Writing, though, well, pretty much anyone, anywhere, can write. Handwriting is great, but if there are physical limitations, a keyboard or smartphone works just as well.

The ubiquity of phones means most of us have a writing device in our hand/pocket most of the time, which means opening a notes app and writing is a legitimate, accessible alternative to doomscrolling.

Constructive

Writing through difficult experiences and emotions is constructive in two senses: first, it literally constructs a narrative about what happened.

Part of what makes difficult experiences so difficult is that they are often unexpected: the car accident, the natural disaster, the unexpected illness. The shock is another layer of pain; insult added to injury.

Writing is a chance to construct a narrative. Instead of this random explosion, the incident becomes part of a larger story. Context can be created.

Second, writing is constructive in the sense of being useful. Pennebaker (2010), reporting on his early studies of university students found, “expressive writing could influence immune function, reduce a broad array of health complaints, improve students’ adjustment to college, and even boost their grades.”

Tangible

Memories, ideas and emotions are butterflies; words are pins.

When we write, we force our flittery nervous system to stop fluttering and turn the jitters into something tangible, immovable.

In a subtle but meaningful way, writing lets us embody our inner life. Words on the page say: I am here.

Pinning emotions with words punctures them, tool.

I love you shrinks from an uncontainable sensation to eight small letters.

So does I hate you or I want to die or I’m so happy I could die.

However outsized the emotion, writing brings it down to size and fixes it in space. Once the lines are on the page, we can literally step away. Or crumple the paper, or hit ‘delete’.

Suddenly, instead of having power over us, those flapping feelings are at our mercy.

Inexpensive

This is, perhaps, a sub-category of ‘accessible’ but — given the crunchy, fickle global economic climate — seems worth highlighting.

Writing is cheap. Like, free.

Anyone who has a phone (at that’s about 7bn of us, according to recent data) has access to everything they need to write, at no additional cost. (Should they choose, they also have access to places that might publish their writing, communities of fellow writers, writing advice, etc.)

Even hand writing is no great investment: despite increasing digitization most of us have old bills, printer paper or notebooks lying around. And you can still ‘borrow’ pens from banks and offices, or grab a packet of pencils at the grocery store.

Private

• Some things are hard to discuss, even with a therapist.

• Sometimes, events are so shocking or new that we don’t trust ourselves to form complete sentences about them.

• Some days, there is no opportunity to connect through conversation.

But writing is always an option, and it is intensely private.

Writing is a chance to be honest, terrified, hysterical, self-indulgent, angry, etc. Nobody is listening, nobody else ever has to see your words.

If you write offline, moreover, the words remain your own. Nobody can data mine your pain, feed your self-doubt into an algorithm, or target your trauma with ads.

This is a not-inconsequential benefit. As X foments racial hate, and Meta drops fact-checking and any pretence of not being a white boys’ club, it is more urgent than ever to defend our private lives against these tech-bro sociopaths.

But writing can carve meaning out of chaos. Through healing, we cultivate resources and wisdom to help others heal too.