How I Learned to Text Without Overthinking for 3 Hours
Noor sent me one question, and I took three hours to answer it.
It was a perfectly lovely question. Want to come to the lake with us on Saturday? Four words, a little sun emoji, no pressure. The kind of message a normal person answers in four seconds with a thumbs-up.
I typed Yes, that sounds great!, and then I stared at it. The exclamation mark felt too excited. I deleted it and wrote Yes, that sounds great. Now it sounded angry. I added a smiley, which looked desperate, and removed it, which looked cold.
I wrote a version with a joke. I deleted the joke because it wasn’t funny enough. I wrote a version with no joke. I deleted that because it was boring. I wrote a draft where I said I might be busy but would try, which was a lie, and then a draft where I explained at length why I was so slow to reply.
By the end of the third hour, I had fourteen drafts. My thumb was sore. My dinner was cold. And Noor, who is one of the nicest people alive, had sent a second message that said only: ?
What if I sound weird?
What if she can tell I’m trying too hard?
What if one wrong word ruins everything?
Nobody reads a text like a judge
I told Zoe the next day, a little ashamed, and showed her the fourteen drafts. She scrolled through them slowly, the way you look at someone’s old holiday photos.
“Draft nine is nice,” she said.
“It’s identical to draft three.”
“I know. That’s the point.” She handed the phone back. “Lina, when you receive a text, do you analyze every comma? Do you hold it up to the light?”
I thought about the messages I get. “No. I read it fast, I feel happy that someone wrote to me, and I forget the words.”
“Exactly. People read your texts the way you read theirs. In one second, with a warm feeling. You’re writing for a judge who doesn’t exist.”
That was surprisingly comforting, and also a little insulting to my fourteen drafts.
· · ·
Draft once, read once, send once
Zoe borrowed a sticky note from my desk and wrote three lines. She stuck it to the back of my phone, where I would have to look at it every time I picked it up.
- Draft once. Write it the way you would say it out loud.
- Read once. One slow read. Fix only what is unclear or unkind.
- Send once. Press send, put the phone face down and go and do something with your hands.
“And one more thing,” she said. “If it takes longer than five minutes, you’re not writing a text anymore. You’re writing a speech for a stranger.”
We tested it right there on the school steps, using a little sand timer from the art room. Noor had just sent a third message: Hope you’re okay! Zoe flipped the timer. I typed Sorry for the late reply, I would love to come on Saturday! What should I bring?
I read it once, aloud, in my normal voice. It sounded exactly like me. I pressed send.
The sand was still running.
The lake, and a face-down phone
Noor replied in nine seconds. Yay!!! Bring snacks!!! We’re leaving at 10.
Three exclamation marks, a sun and a sandwich. That was the whole conversation. It did not contain a single hidden meaning. It was just a friend, glad to hear from me.
I put the phone face down on my desk and made a list of snacks. It was the easiest list I had ever made.
On Saturday, we sat at the edge of the lake with our feet in the water and shared a very squashed bag of pretzels. Noor laughed at something I said without even thinking about it. No one asked me how long my drafts had taken.
I still overthink sometimes. Last week, I caught myself on draft four. I looked at the sticky note on the back of the phone and, with a deep breath, I sent the thing.
It turns out that a text is only a small paper boat. It doesn’t need to be perfect to float. It only needs to be set down on the water.
With love,
Lina
