Last year, when a writing workshop discussed an essay I wrote about my lifelong love of words (a piece later published here), someone suggested I add the psychological reasons for that keen enthusiasm. Was treasuring words an escape from something bad that happened to me as a child? A way of coping with loneliness, perhaps?
I felt flummoxed and a bit insulted by these comments. Would they have made the same suggestion if I’d described loving something more active, such as swimming, dancing or collecting model trucks? Some kids become enthralled with playing basketball while others – like young Edith Wharton – spend hours upon hours making up stories. Must there be a deep cause for what we enjoy? Can’t it just be a fact, a difference like having blond hair rather than brown, and not a psychological compensation?