Excerpt from A Mind Unraveled by Kurt Eichenwald, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"So, do you enjoy working for the paper?" Shepperd asked.

"No," I replied. "I'm thinking about quitting. I never write anything interesting."

"What do you want to write about?"

Laetrile. I wanted to work on a story about laetrile. This was a supposed miracle cancer treatment that had not been approved in the United States, but plenty of patients traveled to Mexico for the drug and swore it worked. I had first heard about it on 60 Minutes a few years before and discussed it with my father. The controversy fascinated me.

"So write about it," Shepperd said.

The Remarker didn't allow for that, I replied. We covered school events, not national news.

Without another word, Shepperd called the Remarker's faculty sponsor. "Andy, Kurt Eichenwald is in my office, and he wants to do an article about laetrile. He thinks no one will let him. Can he write it?"

A second passed, and Shepperd hung up. "Okay, so now you're assigned the article. No more excuses."

Weeks of reporting and writing followed; the article filled two inside pages of the paper. I was delighted and proud and even won a local journalism prize. As a reward, I suppose, I was named a contributing editor in my senior year. I didn't want to be a spoilsport and reject the position, but I had accomplished all I wanted to at the Remarker. So I accepted without enthusiasm and almost immediately distanced myself from the job. That was a flaw in my character - ­I could devote enormous energy to something that fascinated me, but once I finished, my interest flagged. My obsession with a single task could end as fast as a flip of a switch. A few months into my senior year, that trait became obvious to the paper's staff, who nicknamed me "the noncontributing editor."

That do-­it-­and-­drop-­it trait played a large role in my choice of colleges. After four years of high school debate spent whiling away weekends at tournaments, I suddenly and inexplicably lost all enthusiasm for public speaking. As a result, I eliminated schools with strong debate teams from my list of options, fearing I'd be pressured to join. My brother was a junior at Swarthmore College, a small liberal-­arts school about eleven miles from Philadelphia that offered little in the way of debate. The school was reputed to be an academic hothouse, so given my middling grades, I assumed I would have no chance at admission. When Swarthmore's acceptance letter arrived, I raced so recklessly up the driveway in my father's car that I almost crashed into a fence.

Weeks before graduation, my class performed Senior Follies, the annual song-­and-­skit roast that poked good-­natured fun at St. Mark's, the teachers, and other students. This event was considered a big deal, and my classmates elected me producer. I spent months huddled with friends writing skits and song lyrics, planning choreography, and getting by with little sleep. My staring episodes escalated, and some teachers worried about my health. One day, Shepperd saw my haggard face and ordered me to skip the rest of my classes, go home, and get some sleep.

I had never been so exhausted as on the night of Senior Follies. I appeared in a few skits, including one where I caricatured a quirky science teacher. I was reciting a joke about a toy car when I suddenly felt confused. I had stopped speaking and couldn't recall my most recent words. These "sudden break" episodes had begun earlier that year, and though I considered them minor annoyances compared with the staring spells, I had no idea how long they lasted. All I knew this time was that one had occurred onstage.

Later that night, the class got together for an after-­show party. As I nursed a beer, someone played a recording of the performance. Everybody listened, laughing, but I sank into uneasiness. Had I made a fool of myself when I drifted away? Had my classmates hidden their embarrassment? When they heard the odd pause, would they quiz me about it?

Excerpted from A Mind Unraveled by Kurt Eichenwald. Copyright © 2018 by Kurt Eichenwald. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.