The Thermodynamics of Writing

As happens so often when my husband and I have one of our many discussions, the topic inevitably touches on both science and writing. Of course I think it’s far easier to talk about writing, because almost anyone can understand a story if it’s told clearly enough. As far as science goes, I represent to my husband a sort of blank slate. If he can get me to understand certain segments of science then he can get just about anyone to understand them. I keep telling him I’m different from his students because I actually enjoy listening to him in particular, but I’m not sure that makes him feel any better.

Let me allow you a glimpse into one of our discussions. Not long ago, my husband was explaining to me the zeroth law of thermodynamics—actually I’d more accurately state that he demonstrated this law to me.

I do not exaggerate when I say my husband has the coldest feet in the world, no matter the season or time of day. The two feet of snow depicted to the right is a fairly accurate representation of what my husband’s feet feel like most of the time. On one very early morning, he was trying to warm his icicle toes by placing them under me, which I naturally resisted. In his attempt to divert my attention and succeed in stealing my warmth, he explained to me how his cold and my warmth would eventually even out and become the same. This is the zeroth law of thermodynamics. In this case such a law was working fine for him, but obviously not so fine for me.

But this is why my husband and I are so compatible, and incidentally why his diversion tactic worked. As he was explaining this scientific law, I began to forget about the glaciers trying to melt under me. It occurred to me I try doing something similar with every book I write. Here’s how I explained the thermodynamics of writing to him:

An idea takes shape in my mind, and blossoms into a full-fledged story. But inside my head, it does nothing. (Quotes about a tree falling in the forest with no one around to hear it come to mind, but that’s another topic altogether. Is a story untold really a story?) This as-yet-untold novel in my head is sort of like my warm feet. Then someone without a story comes along (i.e. with cold feet), and I share my story. My idea floats like energy between us, from my head to the reader’s. It equals out between us.

The transmission of story energy is hopefully a far more pleasant experience than the exchange of heat between persons with warm and cold feet, but the idea is similar, at least to me as I tried to mesh science and writing in this discussion with my husband. When I tell my story to someone we share it equally. We’re both inhabiting the same story world, you and I, the author and the reader, in the same way.

Okay, so I know this is a stretch. Science and writing don’t have as much in common as I like to think, since I’m happily ensconced in a marriage with a steady exchange of ideas between my husband and I. Perhaps on a frosty morning having the warmth stolen from under me provided just the right conditions for this to make sense. Kind of like those middle-of-the-night epiphanies that by morning seem almost silly. But even now, this one makes me smile…