As a writer, I remember everything. And especially the hurts. Strip me of my skin and muscles and leave me bare to the bone, and then point to my scars, and I'll be able to tell you the story of each and every one. From the big ones, I'll be able to weave a novel and sustain the conversation well past the point of my own comfort. Being a writer has very little to do with talent. The only real requirement is the ability to remember the story of every scar. Writing consists of the persistence of memory. And one's consistently quiet wish, fuelled by a myriad of addictions, to forget.
Tuesday, June 18, 2024
My only memento...
How often do we tell our own life stories? How often do we adjust, embellish, and make sly cuts? The longer life goes on, the fewer those around to challenge our account and remind us that our life is not our life, merely the story we have told about our life - told to others but mainly to ourselves.
As a writer, I remember everything. And especially the hurts. Strip me of my skin and muscles and leave me bare to the bone, and then point to my scars, and I'll be able to tell you the story of each and every one. From the big ones, I'll be able to weave a novel and sustain the conversation well past the point of my own comfort. Being a writer has very little to do with talent. The only real requirement is the ability to remember the story of every scar. Writing consists of the persistence of memory. And one's consistently quiet wish, fuelled by a myriad of addictions, to forget.
As a writer, I remember everything. And especially the hurts. Strip me of my skin and muscles and leave me bare to the bone, and then point to my scars, and I'll be able to tell you the story of each and every one. From the big ones, I'll be able to weave a novel and sustain the conversation well past the point of my own comfort. Being a writer has very little to do with talent. The only real requirement is the ability to remember the story of every scar. Writing consists of the persistence of memory. And one's consistently quiet wish, fuelled by a myriad of addictions, to forget.