For most of the time since I was eight years old, I’ve felt like my primary mission in life was to write.
I started blogging in 1997 and started weekly psycho-therapy in 1998. All of my therapists have seen vast swathes of my writing as a major obstacle to my well-being. They’ve all wanted me to pull back from writing things that detract from my life. If I am committed to being an Orthodox Jew, then I should not blog things that hurt me in that area. If I am committed to teaching the Alexander Technique, I should not publish things that hurt me in that area. If I want to have friends, I should not make public writings that threaten those connections.
By contrast, I’ve usually held that my most important purpose in life is to write and that everything else can lump it. Yes, I want to protect my most important relationships and will never betray those dozen or so connections, but after that, I’m free to say what I want, and if doing so causes me isolation, well, that’s the price of being an artist, of having such a sensitive soul, such keen observations. I’m in this world but not of this world. Sir Thomas More lost his head, and I would lose mine too. Let it rest on Traitor’s Gate. Fine. My writing will be eternal.
