Abstract
I write so that I know what I think. Many have said the same (e.g., Akhtar, Bach, Gabbard, Kantrowitz, Poland). The process of writing is not an expression of preformed thoughts or even a discovery of these, but an evolving creation, a construction that derives from within the logic of language itself. As any author knows, you end up with a product you didn’t expect because you don’t really know what you think ahead of time. Henry Kissinger purportedly said he didn’t know what he thought about a particular subject because he hadn’t started talking about it yet (Citation? I can’t find it!).
I write in order to clarify and evolve my thinking. I start with some muddled idea that needs ironing out. The writing does that, like pressing a piece of cloth until the knots, gaps, and wrinkles are straightened. This journey, this ironing out, leads to other unknown areas and the landscape is enlarged. The written piece lengthens.
Many authors in this column share their personal histories of writing from an early age. This is not true for me. I did not write as a child or young adult. But I do have writing in my family—my father was a scholar, professor, and author. My mother had a passion for words—she would do the most difficult crossword puzzles every morning, in pen, seemingly never looking up. Vocabulary was valued—pejorative, nefarious, ubiquitous, egregious—as were arguments, passionate and always over a pot of ragù, opera in the background. Whenever I write, I play opera. When I write, I feel at home.
There is writing in my history as a young professional. My first job as a psychologist involved testing—two batteries per week for a couple of years. Not a dream job, but it was the one I got. For each battery, I had to write a report to be read by colleagues, which was not the same thing as daily session notes filed away in some chart never to be seen. The anxiety of that experience, both pressured and abundant, familiarized me with the imagined gaze of others on my thinking.
Words are like jewelry to me. (That and my curly hair.) They adorn life. I love looking at the books in my library/office. I haven’t read them all, yet I am apt to buy more new books rather than read the ones I haven’t gotten to. Why? I also have a massive tome in one of my office cubbies—a dictionary opened midway, displayed as if in a vase. In the past, I used it when searching for a word. Now, the online world has taken over, but that dictionary still adorns my shelf.
Writing is generous, an offering and sharing of thinking. I write to stimulate a give-and-take so we can all learn something. It is often said that we never learn as much as when we are teaching—this comes from the generic process of discussion, learning from students and colleagues, and learning from the questions asked, especially those not answered.
I also write to pay tribute to others. Though I try not to read too much in the early stages of writing so that my thoughts coalesce without too much influence (Bloom 1973), I make a special effort to cite others in my final drafts. There is never enough recognition for the brilliant minds that have come before. It’s one narcissistic blow after another, but I tolerate it! I’d rather set the record straight, gathering those voices around me while recognizing and feeling the good company.
I write to be understood. I try not to write to impress but to share my thinking in a way that offers something digestible and expansive. Our literature is difficult and I pride myself on being accessible. I attribute this quality of my writing to my fiercest editor, my husband Bruce, who is not in our field. Whenever I write a paper, he is the first to read the various drafts. In preparation for my very first presentation (I was terrified), he began to read my draft and promptly fell asleep! I’ll never forget that lesson, and though we joke about it now, it still shapes my writing efforts.
I organize my thinking by organizing my writing. I make outlines of what I have written after I have a long draft that gathers the disorganized and circuitous bits. The first draft is a mélange of ideas, written slapdash and nongrammatically, so I can get the rough fragments on paper before I forget them. I try not to judge how I say anything at this early stage—it’s free associational, analogic, nonlinear, and a mess! Cleanup is fun and easy—that’s when I calm down with confidence that I have something to say.
Many writers speak of creating a legacy. A gesture toward immortality to extend our finite existence into an endless future. I suppose this is part of why I write, but I’m mostly aware of writing to know that I exist right now. My writing stands as a concrete representation of me. I express, therefore I am. I am understood, therefore I am.
When I wrote my dissertation, I developed a measure derived from Arnie Modell’s (1975) work on narcissism and self-sufficiency. It turned out to be useful, differentiating my subjects just as I needed, so I called and told him. He invited me to his office and we talked about our mutual interests, all before I became a psychoanalyst. As I was leaving his office, I had a palpable fantasy that there would be a gathering of colleagues, friends, and strangers just outside, ready to applaud. When I actually stepped outside, the silence was deafening. So yes, I write to get appreciation from others.
I also write to express my gratitude—to advance this field that has given me so much—a home, a niche, a world of empathic others, a universe of loving others who perceive the world similarly to me.
Writing, poetry or prose, is beautiful. I write in the hope that I might create beauty. I often say that the language of the unconscious is a poem. I may have an idea that barely extends to the margins of the page, but it could be a seed that grows.
What I mean to say is that I feel my writing as an act of love and there can never be enough of that.
