In case you, like me, haven’t heard it before, I am here to tell you that there is such a ‘thing’ in the English language called ‘non-native writing.’
If you are wondering what I am on about, bear with me — till I have a cup of tea and a lie down. Rather English of me don’t you think?
Well, no. Not really.
Not even a cup of tea and a lie down would pass me off as a native speaker.
Just like my writing.
If you happened to read ‘How I did (not) become a writer,’ or some of my other pieces, you know that English is not my first language and that I’ve learned it as an adult.
Nevertheless, I have come to love the language and have been writing in it for some years.
From time to time, I send some of my pieces to literary journals or, longer pieces, to agents and publishers. Apart from some rare successes, they are mostly rejected. I know that is not surprising.
However, it was not until today that I received a rejection that cited ‘non-native writing’ as a reason. From a well-known and well-regarded editor/publisher.
And it made me think.
Not about the rejection, I am used to those by now, but about the reason for it.
Because it spelled out what I’ve been suspecting for some time, — I’ve been deluding myself that I can write in English the way I want to write. The way I feel.
And everyone but me knew it.
They just could not be bothered to, until today, tell me. Why would they?
Politeness is both — pleasant and effortless. Critique is neither.
I remember watching an old movie once in which a husband keeps his wife happy by propping up her illusion that she is a talented, even famous, singer.
It appears I don’t even need a husband or some such to manufacture and sustain my illusions for me — I seem capable of it all on my own.
Oh well … it lasted a long time this ‘English season’ of mine. Almost thirty years.
It might be time to call it quits.
Thank you for reading.
