My friend Kasie reminded me I’m supposed to be developing my ego, so today I’m going to shamelessly quote myself. In one of my early posts, I wrote:
None of us are truly creators. Writers can only share our version of what was, or is, or might be. Are the best writers those with the most memories? Do writers have better than average memory retention? Do our memories inspire us to write in the first place? Is imagination really memory?
I’m fascinated by the nature of memory. Supposedly, every single thing we’ve ever seen, heard, felt, smelled, and tasted is recorded in our brains. A brain surgeon can probe a group of cells and instantly we taste the bite of pizza we were chewing at 5:17pm on 3 June 1982. Doesn’t that amaze you?
So then, why is our memory selective? Why do we choose to forget some pleasant things, yet remember painful ones. Is this how we form our personality? Is this how we form our very existence? And what is the nature of existence anyway?
Uh … yeah, going a little too deep there.
But I’m beginning to see the pattern in my musings. Maybe I should just rename this blog to Dreams, Memories, Writing since I connect them so often here. I think all three are ways we process our lives. We have little control over the first two and, on the best level, over the third, too. Flannery O’Connor said: “I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.”
That’s what our memories, and dreams, and writing are for: to find out who we are and what we think and why we’re here in the first place.