Some people write to tell stories or explain notions. I write to discover. Like E.M. Forster’s little old lady, I don’t know what I think till I’ve heard what I have to say.

Uncapping my pen – or opening my laptop – I’ve no idea what I’ll write. That’s the fun. One word leads to the next, one idea or likeness to the next, and I’ve veered in an unexpected direction. It’s like walking in an unmapped wood or unknown city. I sense my whereabouts vaguely; I am not lost; but neither am I sure where I am. I describe my excursions best I can, not to impress but so we can explore together. If I start writing fancy (which sometimes happens), I know I’ve stopped exploring, pausing to bloviate.

This use of writing evolved on its own. In school we were taught to think through what we meant to say before beginning to write, outlining our remarks in advance, so A led to B to C and our conclusion matched our thesis. Despair and isolation introduced me to writing as a navigation tool. Alone in a maze and scared, how to find my way out?

Different sorts of expression gratify different senses, but only language directs. That’s because words, unlike music or flavors or the visual arts, must say something: words without sense are nonsense, which gets boring fast. Dig past what you know (or think you know) in any direction and, behold, a wonderworld. Nothing is ever what I thought. Each sentence quizzes me: is this what you really think?

Talking things through is an ordinary human response to confusion. Recording my conversation with myself makes me work harder to say things right. Any written word aspires to a degree of durability. Anything I’ve said describes who I was – am I pleased with my self-portrait?

Writing wrangles sentiments into sociable sense. I developed my current practice during my long-ago years as a theater critic. I’d sit in the dark watching a show about which I knew nothing except that I’d been assigned to cover it. Often, off off Broadway, I was the only reviewer. I wanted to do justice – and entertain my readers: two goals often at odds. Wise-ass takedowns amuse more than judicious appraisals. Mostly the shows were execrable – and their makers vulnerable. What was my feeling, I’d ask myself, about what was being shown? And what might I report about this experience without breaking a butterfly on the wheel?

When my life got messy, I’d sit in the dark, wondering what to think. Journals and poems groped for an outlook not too discreditable. I’d detail my character and plight to a putative future reader. Any self-description is self-glorification: miscreants, too, seek credit if only for the courage of their candor.

Describing myself, I got to know myself better. I came to eschew lying, whining, gloating, because they offend. I goaded myself to write better, because the abler the author the more readily forgiven. I explored how I came to be, why I felt as I felt, behaved as I behaved. I’m still at it. My ideas frequently startle me: why on earth!

Any gratuitous writing is self-exposure. The world doesn’t need more words. Why do I keep digging? Why am I straining to be known?

Curiosity is part of it – discovery is a sensual delight. Confusion is part – I right myself by writing myself. Then there’s this insatiable avidity for love. All artists, I’m convinced, felt insufficiently embraced as kids. If only I can sing winningly enough, you will love me, and I’ll know I’ve a reason to exist.