I have a terrible memory.
Wait, let me clarify. I have a terrible memory for dates and timelines and names and historical events but I have a beautiful gift for sensory recall of emotions and space. I guess all humans have that to some degree, the feelings of nostalgia that wash over us when we hear a favorite song from long ago or smell the cologne that reminds us of that first crush in grade-school.
When I was 16 my dad bought me a used Toyota Corolla. It was green. I continued to drive that car, lovingly known as “The Green Machine,” for another 16 years until it met an untimely demise.
I cried real tears the day I had to say goodbye to that car. Not because I’m so obsessed with cars but because of what it represented to me.
I have come to believe, in my more seasoned years of life as a writer, that perhaps it is a by-product of the job, this “attachment” to things.
It isn’t so much the remembering that I relish in, but the retelling that allows a sort of reliving of the moment. I read somewhere that being a writer allows you to live life twice – once in the living and second in the telling. Continue reading “A Writer’s Attachment to Things”
