Writing as Thinking and Loving

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