From an early age, my creative passions have been equally divided between the sciences and the arts. In childhood, I built rockets and remote control devices and had a small laboratory attached to my bedroom. I also wrote poetry and short stories. My friends divided into two categories: the rational, deliberate types, and the intuitive, spontaneous types. Friends, teachers, and family told me that I had to go in one direction or the other. I could be a scientist, or a writer, but not both.
I decided to concentrate on science. I got a Ph.D. in theoretical physics and established myself in a scientific career. I did research. I taught physics at major universities. I went to scientific conferences. I loved discovering new things about the physical universe that no one had known before me. But something in me was not satisfied. I was not able to express my individuality. Science, as exhilarating as it is, offers little comfort to anyone who aches to leave behind a personal message in his or her work. Experiments in science are accepted only if they can be reproduced by anyone in the world. Equations are valid only if they can be rederived by others. If Einstein had never lived, someone else would have invented the theory of relativity, but if Beethoven had never lived, we would never have had the C-minor Symphony.
As I approached my late 30s, my anxiety grew so great that I became almost paralyzed. I could not see how to get from where I was, safely embraced by the community of scientists, to a career as a writer. I began writing essays. At first, my essays were about science, but eventually they lifted off from that familiar territory and began exploring human drama. Finally, I summoned the courage to leave the scientific community altogether and to join the community of writers. I am not sure if I reinvented myself or simply listened to the voices that were always within me.
Alan Lightman is a novelist, essayist, physicist and Professor of Humanities at MIT.
