A Line I Didn’t Mean to Write: One Exercise for Meeting What Slips Through
There is no urgency here. Some truths need time before they make themselves known.
Sometimes the truth doesn’t arrive on purpose. It slides in under the weight of the metaphor, or nestles between two carefully chosen sentences. It appears as something small. A turn of phrase. A detail you didn’t think would matter.
I recently wrote about how creative work often knows something before we do. How sometimes we write around an idea, only to realize later we’ve walked straight into its center. Today’s reflection is for what comes next. Not necessarily sharing. Not fixing. Just noticing.
This is one small practice for meeting what showed up uninvited.
The Exercise: Circle the Sentence That Surprises You
Think of a piece of creative work you’ve made recently. It doesn’t need to be polished or public, likely it perhaps shouldn’t be. It could be a paragraph, a sketch, a chorus, a list in a notebook. Read it back slowly, looking not for what is best, but for what catches your attention, catches your breath, catches your heart.
That catch might be a sentence that feels heavier than the rest. Or a line you don’t remember writing. Or a phrase that feels oddly familiar and uncomfortable, like you said more than you meant to. That is the one. Circle it.
Trust your intuition on this. Don’t overthink it. Feel the catch in your body. Circle.
Now sit with it for a moment. Don’t analyze it. Don’t explain it. Just hold it in your awareness and ask: What part of me was speaking here? Not who. Not why. Just what part. The one that is tired? Protective? Grieving? Twelve years old? Unresolved? Hungry?
Then, if you feel ready, write a short letter from that part to the rest of you (or a poem or an audio file or a photo - whatever medium makes the most sense for you from that part.) Let it speak without editing or performance. Don’t worry if it doesn’t make narrative sense or look beautiful. This is not a storytelling exercise. It is a listening one.
Why This Works (Even When It Feels Small)
This practice draws from expressive writing and parts work, particularly the Internal Family Systems (IFS) model, which suggests that we are not a single, unified self, but a constellation of parts: some young, some wise, some protective, some afraid. Often, it is one of these inner parts that steps forward in our creative work without asking. Especially the ones we have silenced elsewhere.
According to IFS theory, when a part expresses itself through art, it is not trying to hijack the process. It is trying to be heard. And in hearing it, not judging or fixing it but just hearing it, just giving it space, we build trust with ourselves. We begin to create from a place of deeper integration.
This is not analysis. It’s more like conversation. One that doesn’t rush to define meaning but simply acknowledges presence.
Examples: What This Might Look Like
A sentence from a personal essay:
“I don’t think I know how to want things anymore.”
When circled and examined gently, this line might reveal a part of you that has been quietly enduring. That learned early on to equate longing with disappointment, and so began choosing numbness instead. Let that part write a letter. It might say, “I stopped wanting because it never worked. I stopped asking because I was always afraid the answer would be no.” And maybe that is enough. Not for resolution, but for recognition.
Or a poem that ends with a phrase that feels out of place:
“I folded the morning in half and threw it away.”
What part of you feels that? Who discards the day before it begins? What might that part have to say if you gave it voice without fear of being misread? What would this letter say if you wrote it?
You Don’t Have to Share the Letter
This is important. The letter is not meant to be the next essay, the next post, the next page of your book. You don’t need to craft it into something. In fact, it may be better if you don’t.
This is work you do beside the work. Shadow practice. Quiet noticing. An invitation for your inner world to speak in a way that doesn’t demand performance or publication.
You are allowed to know something without broadcasting it. You are allowed to witness yourself without translating it for an audience. And you are allowed to let the truth be small and incomplete.
What If Nothing Comes?
That’s fine too. This practice works even when all you can do is circle a sentence and sit with it. There is no urgency here. Some truths need time before they make themselves known. Some sentences arrive before you know why. That’s okay.
Let the work stay slightly ahead of your understanding. That is where it sometimes belongs.
And if, later, you find yourself rereading a piece and saying, “I didn’t mean to tell you that,” you can remember that telling is not always the same as revealing. And revealing is not always the same as sharing.
Sometimes, noticing is the most honest act of all.
If you read this far, perhaps you like my work. It does take work. Support it if you can.
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Thank you
, , and for being inspiring. <3
