Our reading culture is taken memoirs, the implication being that memories hold value. And yet how much can we trust our recollections.
Memoirists emphasize that it is not the memories that carry power, rather the meaning held within the memory itself. And yet memories, whether capturing the event as it truly was or as we would have wished, are grounded in actual moments of our lives.
Perhaps that is the most important aspect of memories, that they are rooted in our lives, human existence. And in that we have them, experience and undergo their transformative effects, evidences that we have live, that we are alive and conscious in this moment.
So much of writing is about the moment–the moment of the story, the moment of our protagonist in her or his dilemma, the moment of our creativity transferred from the abstract form of our thoughts onto the concrete manifestation of the page or computer screen.
And then there is another transformation, another manipulation of existence, if you will, that of meaning lifted from the pages of our stories as the reader absorbs our words.
Words carry such energy. And yet they are as elusive as the ideas they seek to convey.
It is only through the images conjured by our words, as if by magic, that our stories, their meanings, our intentions remain alive, become symbols ever transforming themselves through our recollections, our memories.
How much do memories serve as fodder for your stories?
Do you recall the best book you ever read?
What image do you retain of that book or story?