In my 20s, I learned that the fastest way to end a conversation was to tell someone what I did for a living. “I draft contracts,” I would say, and watch my interlocutor’s eyes glaze. I get it: There’s a reason we speed through interminable terms of use and toss credit-card agreements into the trash without a second glance. “Legalese,” we call the language with scorn. “Whereas”? “Hereby”? Who talks like that? And who would make that their life?
I certainly didn’t plan on going into corporate law. I thought I would become a trial lawyer until a persistent case of laryngitis and a growing fear of public speaking taught me that I didn’t enjoy oral argument as much as I thought I did. I pivoted away from the courtroom, instead studying commercial drafting with a buttoned-up practitioner who emphasized form.
Contracts offered a predictable rhythm and a nesting doll-like structure, in which each article, section and subsection had a purpose. The body of the contract contained the major terms of agreement, divided into titled segments. There were “defined terms,” a glossary of important words; “representations and warranties,” statements of fact meant to induce a party to enter into the agreement; “covenants,” or promises; and “conditions precedent,” events that had to happen before a party was required to act. Learning how to read contracts was like studying a foreign language, but soon enough I got comfortable with archaic phrases like “notwithstanding the foregoing.” I welcomed the rules-based craft after years of Socratic questioning — a pedagogy that felt like the classroom equivalent of a thrill ride (which I also detest).
Notwithstanding the foregoing, I might also have been attracted to the antiseptic nature of contracts because my personal life was such a mess. I wasn’t sure if I was gay, bisexual or just a LUG (lesbian until graduation), yet my bigger problem was a fear of commitment. When my law-school boyfriend told me he loved me, I found I couldn’t say it back. Years later, I would understand my intimacy issues as anxiety over abandonment, but back then I only knew that those words signified a step in our relationship I wasn’t ready to take.
Contract drafting, a deliberative process that requires clarity and specificity, helped me understand my reticence. Our first assignment was to write an agreement for the sale of a used 1995 Nissan Altima. Most lawyers pull from old agreements (and today, A.I.), but in school we had to write ours from scratch. I thought I did a good job until I received my teacher’s feedback. These included notes on style and substance. As I revised, a certain alchemy took hold. I realized that telling my boyfriend that I loved him made me uncomfortable: I was making a commitment without knowing what, exactly, it entailed. Would I need to change my habits? Was I agreeing to take care of him in some way? Were we exclusive? “I love you” was an open-ended assertion, a promise with vague terms.
When drafting contracts, on the other hand, it was imperative to imagine all the ways that a relationship could play out and protect parties (notably, me) from getting hurt. Lawyers protect the client through a collaborative writing process. At my law-firm job, we marked up the document, striking some words while adding others, before passing it to the opposing side. It often got messy — I once almost missed an early-morning flight while two parties tussled over a single sentence in a letter of intent — but there was something beautiful about the collective energy that went into creating a shared understanding of what was expected of each other.
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