Thursday, July 30, 2026

Another Word for Love

“I was once told by someone wise that writing is perilous as you cannot always guarantee your words will be read in the spirit in which they were written.” 
― Jojo Moyes, The Last Letter from Your Lover

I’m sure it has long since become clear to regular readers of this newsletter that for me very little of this is about the past, strictly speaking. I am not writing a memoir.

No. If this kind of writing had a name, maybe it would be called a memoir of the future. Everything that has happened until now is prologue, from my point of view, with an unknown outcome.

But time is not a constant, as quantum physics has demonstrated, so what in conventional terms might seem like a comparatively short future may in all the ways that really matter to be the best part of the whole story.

I love the quote up top by Jojo Moyes, the English journalist and romance novel author, about how perilous writing feels when you are doing it truthfully. Telling the truth, not with your brain but with your heart, is a perilous business. 

Accordingly, I know whenever I have touched on the past too closely because when I publish that essay I am scared. 

The problem with the past, the honest past, is it involves digging up and stirring up old passions, old pains that may never have completely healed.

I am not a psychiatrist, and I’m willing to believe that some good comes of the process of resurfacing painful memories, processing them, recovering from them, if that is actually possible.

But I suspect some good also comes from acknowledging them privately but allowing them to fade away in favor of celebrating the better outcomes of our efforts at leading self-examined lives.

It’s just an instinct, not a proposition. Some things stay private.

So I’ve established that this is ordinary, that there’s enough good and bad in my past to fill a conventional memoir but that would be the book I have chosen not to write.

Everything I have been doing since this started is about the future. 

The New Yorker’s Janet Malcolm believed that people led secret lives out of view from their public lives. Her writing sometimes explored these secrets, such as her book about the relationship between Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas.

The way I refer to such matters is that we each have a rich inner life. And for me the definition of true intimacy is when one person feels able to share his or her inner secret life with another person, even a stranger.

To me that is just another word for love.

(An earlier version of this was in 2021.)

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