When English Is Your Writing Language, Not Your Native Language
Some details are suddenly significant
I began to learn English at school when I was 4 years old, in Caracas, Venezuela. My school had a really strong English language curriculum that emphasized, above all else, grammar.
Still, my life took place in Spanish and I didn’t have to write anything longer than a couple of paragraphs in English until I went away to college in the US.
Oh, except for my college essay, which my father, who’d lived in the US through his high school and college years, helped me with.
I soon discovered how utterly unprepared I was for all the writing college required. The first essay I wrote was for a first-year seminar called War, and I procrastinated (out of fear?) until the night before it was due to tackle it.
That night, I learned the term all nighter.
I actually wrote the essay long hand, if you can believe it. The year being 1987, it was probably one of the last times any professor at my college had a student turn in a handwritten essay.
A guy who lived down the hallway in my dorm, and whom I would fall in love with and date two years later, helped me out. I could tell he thought it was both stupid and hilarious that I’d put off starting my first real essay the night before it was due.
Yet, here I am, 33 years later, writing out of choice — in English.
The truth is my K-12 school didn’t emphasize writing at all — in any language. Thus, the only language I have practice writing in is English. However good or bad my writing may be, it would be far inferior in Spanish, which is not only my native language but also my most fluent “natural” language.
Still, there are times when I’m keenly aware that I write in non-native English.
The most obvious instance is when I deal with prepositions.
Do I work in North School or at North School? During revision, I ended up changing my original in to at.
Did I put on my pajamas backward or inside out? I wrote backward and didn’t think twice about it. When re-reading the article weeks after publishing it, I realized inside out would’ve been way better.
Then there’s the impersonal Spanish “se”, which I so often wish existed in English.
When I write in English, I’m not translating ideas from Spanish to English. Sometimes, though, as I write a sentence, the thought “This would sound so perfect with se” comes to mind.
For example, in Spanish we need not call you or anyone out when suggesting or requiring. “Hay que cubrirse la boca” is directed at the universe, while “You must cover your mouth” is directed at you.
“Se habla inglés” sounds friendlier than “English spoken here.”
And, doesn’t “Se añaden 2 tazas de azúcar” in a recipe sound more optional than “Add 2 cups of sugar”?
How about the dilemma of when to use contractions? I imagine native speakers of English just know when to use can’t instead of cannot, and they’ll and not they will.
Since I was taught not to use contractions in writing, I always end up adding them during revision. Habits acquired in childhood are mighty hard to break!
Finally, here’s the most dreadful part of the ESL experience for people of my great generation: diagramming sentences (to death). Subject, verb, predicate, prepositional phrase, preposition, object of the preposition… We were made to dissect sentences into what looked like March Madness brackets.
Because of how I was taught to write English, I know my inclination is to write very formal, and that, perhaps, this makes me try too hard to sound the opposite. I also know I’ll never get the prepositions and contractions just right, and that word order may sound a bit off at times.
I like to think, though, that being a non-native English writer ultimately makes my work a bit more original. But that’s for readers to decide.






