T

alking is scary.

If you get called on in class 

out of the blue, there is no 

time for the gray fog in your brain to 
clear. There is no time to piece together 
an intellectual answer that accurately 
reflects what you actually think about 
the topic. Instead, you blurt out some 
half-concocted answer to try and pass 
yourself off as engaged student who is 
able to quickly formulate and articulate 
ideas.

In 
Advanced 
Placement 
English 

Literature class during my senior year 
of high school, we were in the middle of 
discussing “Beowulf” when my teacher 
decided to have everyone go around and 
say their greatest fear. As he started 
in the opposite corner of the room, 
my mind started racing. What’s my 
biggest fear? Spiders? That’s too basic. 
Abandonment? That’s too deep. Yet, 
even though my mind was racing, it was 
simultaneously blank.

Finally, it was my turn — the last 

person to reveal their biggest fear. I 
opened my mouth. And nothing came 
out.

One of my classmates joked, “Her 

biggest 
fear 
is 
public 
speaking, 

obviously.” And then we just moved on. 
I never answered my biggest fear. But 
my classmate was probably not too far 
off from the truth. 

If my teacher had assigned that 

prompt as a writing assignment, I 
could’ve written a brilliantly-worded 
paper using metaphors, imagery and 
symbols. Instead, he sprung it on us in 
class as a casual conversation topic and 
my mind froze. 

Talking is scary. No amount of 

preparation can appease that.

No matter how many times you 

practice a speech, it only takes one 
misbreath or misplaced swallow for you 
to start tripping over your tongue and 
random sounds to start tumbling out 
of your mouth that you think are words 

but are actually nonsensical gibberish 
which makes you wish you never started 
talking in the first place and you have to 
just remind yourself to breathe.
I

n U.S. History class during my 
sophomore year, our very first 
group presentation was about 

the American colonies. I was assigned 
Plymouth colony. My two groupmates 
and I stood at the front of the room, 
with over 40 eyes on us.

“The Mayflower Pilgrims landed in 

Plymouth, Massachusetts,” I started. 
“They befriended the American Indians 
in the area and were able to get food 
thanks to their native allies, Samoset 
and Sasquatch.”

I froze. I replayed what I just said in 

my head.

“Wait,” I said. “That’s not right…”
People were chuckling, my teacher 

included. “Did you say Sasquatch?”

“Um ... uhh … SQUANTO! I meant 

Squanto.”

But by then, the damage was done. 

Four years later, and I can still hear 
myself claiming Bigfoot helped the 
Pilgrims survive.

Fast forward a year: junior year, A.P. 

U.S. History. Another presentation — 
this time about Claudette Colvin.

“Everyone remembers Rosa Parks, 

but there was a girl before her named 
Claudette Colvin who refused to give up 
her seat on the bus nine months before 
Rosa Parks,” I rambled. “But the reason 
everyone knows Rosa Parks and nobody 
knows Claudette Colvin is because the 
NCAA thought Rosa Parks would make 
a better icon.”

During this presentation, I didn’t 

even catch my verbal blunder the first 
time around. I kept going, even though 
my mind was trying to stomp on the 
mental breaks because it could sense 
something wasn’t right.

“So the historical narrative favors 

Rosa Parks because the NCAA…”

Finally my brain processed what I 

said. But the letters were still scrambled 
in my head.

“Um … wait … N ... double A C P,” the 

letters slowly fell out of my mouth in the 
right order.

“Yeah ... ” my U.S. history teacher 

said. “I don’t think the professional 
basketball association endorsed Rosa 
Parks.”

Though he didn’t say it, I knew he 

was just thinking, “So silly.”

Talking is scary. Those speech gaffes 

happen instantly. It doesn’t matter if 
you’re asked a question and caught off-
guard or if you’ve practiced the words 
for months. Your mouth slips up, and 
it’s a moment frozen in time that you 
cannot go back to edit or erase.

That 
is 
why 
fact-checking 
and 

copyediting matters.

You can refine and revise on paper 

until you get it right. Live speaking is 
a one-shot deal. Writing gives you the 
time to think before you share your 
thoughts. It also allows for the ability 
to go back and make sure you’re saying 
what you want to say. Being a copy 

editor means I can find those mistakes 
and ensure the author’s message is 
accurately and adequately expressed.

That’s not to say writing is an 

infallible method of communication. 
It’s easy to type “our” instead of “out” or 
use the wrong there, their or they’re or 
confuse your acronyms of similar letters 
and type “NCAA” instead of “NAACP,” 
especially if you’re a basketball fan or 
a passionate activist and the muscle 
memory of your fingers kicks in.

However, 
just 
as 
speaking 
is 

dreadfully instantaneous and fleeting, 
writing 
is 
hauntingly 
permanent. 

One typo can go down in history. For 
example, the infamous covfefe becomes 
an embodiment of our nation’s leader. 
But with typing competency, sharp eyes 
and the will to proofread, errors are 
avoidable if one puts in the time and 
thought.

So whether it is impromptu speaking 

or a prepared speech, talking is scary. 
I guess that’s why I’ll stick to being a 
newspaper copy editor and not a TV 
reporter.

3C
Wednesday, October 17, 2018 // The Statement 

Copy That: The fear of speaking and the 
horror of writing

BY ANGELA LIN, SENIOR COPY EDITOR

“Those speech gaffes happen instantly. 

It doesn’t matter if you’re asked a question 
and caught off-guard or if you’ve practiced 
the words for months.”

ILLUSTRATION BY CHRISTINE JEGARL 

