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When I got the invitation to contribute to this column, my mind went into overdrive. Or perhaps into drive. A phrase of Homer's came into my mind from decades ago when I studied the classics. He spoke about the “winged word.” Words do indeed fly away, to someone else, or into the void. Spoken words. For Homer, in his oral tradition, where writing was extremely limited, some of these words got caught and kept, recited by bards like himself.
For us, in the 21st century, the winged word may find in a piece of paper or a laptop screen its branch to perch on. There, the thought or message can be stored, returned to; not lost but recovered, perhaps modified.
Then I found myself remembering another of Homer's phrases: that words escape, or emerge, from “the barrier of the teeth.” Clenched teeth shut them in, but sometimes open up to let them out. “Herkos odonton”— the phrase even reemerges in Greek.
So: one reason for writing is that the mere prospect of it gives life to what is old, from behind the barrier of the mind's teeth. They escape from suppression, from repression. They link up with other thoughts, that often appear unconnected.
This is especially true of the early stages of a piece. The winged word, the barrier of the teeth. I feel more alive. Metaphors are revitalized. There is more to me than I realize.
Clearly, this kind of experience is central to the pleasures of being in psychoanalysis, both as patient and as psychoanalyst. This setting of ours encourages, makes it more possible for us, to think/say what we like, whatever comes to us. I wonder if we psychoanalysts talk too little about the intense pleasures of the process, the satisfaction of the enlargement of our minds. (I hate the word shrink).