I’ve said in the past how memory is everything for a writer. More importantly, however, it’s precisely the memorable experience that is useful for authors. In other words, experiencing something that affects you helps create an image of the experience. This mental image, though accessible only by and through your mind, is very vivid and powerful in terms of affect. Perhaps it is its very nature – abstract, rare, living its ghostly existence only in your consciousness – that gives it its power. Compare that with the modern habit of taking too many photos without the experiences associated with them.
It’s insidious.
I doubt – though nowadays, you never know – you took actual photos during your first date with your loved one. Which one do you remember the best, particularly in terms of affect? The first date from ten years ago with zero photos or a vacation four years ago with hundreds of actual photos (and plenty more selfies)?
Taking too many photos without the experiences the photos refer to renders them both meaningless. Let’s see why, and it’s particularly from an author’s standpoint I’m examining this. It all began… with a dream.
I’m using this image to connote the concept of “memorable experience”. But from the couple’s own perspective, the only image of their experience worth having is the one in their minds(more…)
Browsing around Goodreads, I noticed something interesting. In a discussion on a famous novel, someone asked: “Is this book good? Or is it boring?” I must admit, I was taken aback quite a bit by this question. I have seen questions like this before, as I have seen questions like “do you like my poem?” or “Is this a good photo, do you like it?”
This is a fundamental error that can lead to some serious misunderstandings. More crucially (and depressingly) it tells me that the average person doesn’t really understand anything about art. Perhaps partly because they were never taught how to. Our “education” systems promote not critical thinking but regurgitation of ideas; not compartmentalized meta-thought (multi-layer thinking about the process of thinking) but repetition. Welcome to the wonderful world of mediocrity…
“Is this book good?” Maybe a silly horse can answer that silly question
Whenever the topic of overprotecting parents and overprotected children pops up in a discussion, I begin with the following story. It’s a scary funny story; to me much more funny than scary, though modern-day parents might be appalled. It’s them in particular that need to read this article.
I must’ve been seven or eight years old. As a kid growing up in the 80s, I had freedom the likes of which is only whispered today, late at night, around the proverbial fire. I walked alone to school since I was six, crossing busy highways, walking next to strangers. My mother wasn’t afraid of someone kidnapping me, or a car running me over. In the summers I went to the countryside, to spend my summer vacation with my grandparents. They loosely kept an eye on me, but I was basically running around free, coming home after dark. Overprotecting parents? What’s that?
One day – I must’ve been ten or eleven years old – I returned to my grandparents’ house after playing outdoors under the scorching sun (no sun protection, no sun glasses, and probably no cap either). I was really thirsty, so I grabbed the bottle of water waiting on the floor next to the fireplace. In fact, I was so thirsty that I didn’t stop to think why would a bottle of water be on the floor. I drank several gulps before I realized something was terribly wrong. Yep, I’d drunk lighting fluid instead, which my grandparents – in their infinite wisdom – kept in an empty water bottle. I saw a clear liquid inside a bottle still having the water brand label, so I drank it. Can you blame me?
I was terrified, but even more so when I heard a neighbor suggesting I should be taken to the hospital. My grandparents agreed that there was no danger – they gave me to drink some milk and olive oil. I threw up a couple of times, but I was fine a few hours later. Every time I belched in the next couple of days, it smelled like teen spirit as if a diesel engine had disintegrated. Once I actually thought to try and see what would happen if I belched over open fire, but apparently some sort of survival instinct was still present, and I didn’t. Ah, fun times… It’s these kinds of experiences and memories that give you something to write about in later years.
Do you think the parents of these children would worry about them being outdoors alone?
