Psychology and Writing
The connections I’ve made, and resisted, between my career as a psychologist and my career as a writer have shifted over time.
For many years, I felt the pull between my work as a psychologist and my desire to write as a constant conflict. I spent a considerable amount of time studying, working to get better, and growing into both of these roles, and I felt forever like I was walking down two roads at the same time. Each one wanting my full attention all the time; my brain neither able, or wanting, to devote itself entirely to only one destination.
During that time, I believed my “day job” kept me from devoting myself entirely to my creative passions—and conversely, my “creative passions” distracted me from pushing myself as far as I believed I could go in a career committed entirely to being a psychologist. It often felt like having two lovers. One was wild, free, unpredictable and exciting—but quite possibly not able to pay his share of the rent at the beginning of each month. The other was steady, dependable, kept regular hours, and had health insurance.
I’ll let you work out for yourself which lover was writing.
All this believing that I was so conflicted created a tremendous amount of resistance in me—toward both of my paths. If only I could choose one, and chase it whole-heartedly, my life and mind wouldn’t forever feel so fragmented.
I’m going to be honest with you: my belief in this seemingly unresolvable inner conflict made me very unhappy, and for much longer than it should have.
I’m going to now tell you something I learned, recently although I do wish I had caught a clue much, much sooner. There is no real conflict between my work as a psychologist and my work as a writer. They are, in fact, deeply intertwined aspects of my basic personality. The lens through which my whole worldview is perceived. Both born out of the root desire to understand and connect with people, fostered by my ability to empathize and understand even the most complex people, the most outwardly unlikable characters.
Because people, like the best of characters, have stories. Stories that are rich, detailed, winding tales that have been filled with ups, downs, love, loss, accomplishment, and defeat that have all impacted the individual, their choices, their personality even, to a greater or lesser degree.
My whole life I have most felt “in the flow” while doing three things: reading books, writing books, and listening to people tell me about their struggles.
It’s probably obvious to you, someone who likely doesn’t know me, much sooner than it was to myself, but my practice of psychology and my practice of writing are fundamentally the same—the making sense of both the person, and the conditions in which they live. Figuring out the emotions that drive both a real person and a fictional one. The choices that are born out of those emotions, the behaviors put onto the playing field of the life stage, and of course, all the resulting consequences.
So how does being a psychologist impact my writing?
I’d like to first say that I feel like most writers must already come hardwired for the most basic skill sets necessary to also be a psychologist. If you are going to both invent and then reside in the heads of others, you obviously need to be able to understand those spaces, intimately.
And not only one sort of character, not only characters that most closely resemble ourselves, but a whole host of differing characters if we hope to build stories filled with people beyond our own limited personality. If we want our readers to believe, and we do, that a sociopath driven to kill repeatedly was first formed by the unique combination of their genetic makeup and inborn traits coupled with, and triggered by, the specific environmental conditions in which they were raised, then we need to at some level understand the psychology of humans.
Most writers are not trained psychologists—but they are, or most definitely should be, expert readers by the time they successfully put a pen to page themselves. It was my love of fiction, the deep dive into made-up worlds, where my keenest instincts for empathy were born. As a child, long before the word “psychology” was a part of my vocabulary, I was profoundly moved and then devastated by a boy’s love for his dogs, and the tragic loss of them. I felt and understood his tremendous loss so profoundly; it was as if the loss were mine.
My heart ached, for days, after reading Where the Red Fern Grows. Even now, as an adult, I would swear Dan and Ann were my own—they were the first pets I ever lost. All the emotions are there, even though I never saw those dogs with my own two physical eyes or touched them with my hands.
This is the gift a childhood between the pages gave me—a deep and profound empathy. It’s this very same empathy that opens to a client, listens intently to the story they have tell.
All of this must happen with my characters as well. What do they most dearly want—honestly. Where did they come from? How has their world shaped them? What is standing in their way? And finally, what are they going to do about it now?
For me, being a psychologist and a writer are, at their centers, they same thing. It is a constant quest to listen, observe, and try my best to understand people in every shape and form. Being a psychologist teaches me about being human: writing is a way to share what I’ve learned.
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HER PERFECT LIFE, will be published by Sourcebooks Landmark on June 2, 2020. Rebecca’s other works included ASCENDANT, winner of the Colorado Book Award and AFFECTIVE NEEDS, a finalist for the Romance Writers of America RITA Award.
In addition to writing, she works as a psychologist and currently lives in sunny Colorado with her husband, two teens, and two tragically spoiled dogs.
You can learn more about her and her writing at:
Follow Her On Social Media:
Twitter: @RebeccaTaylorEd
Facebook: @RebeccaTaylorPage
Instagram: @RebeccaTaylorAuthor
Category: Contemporary Women Writers, How To and Tips
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