Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Revision and that slippery thing called memory

Sometimes I think about the writing life with such reverence that I forget how much it parallels the rest of life. Which is to say, sometimes this writer's skills and tools seem adequate for the job of getting through a sentence, a paragraph, a page. Other times, I'm left mucking around on a heavily-marked page, feeling like there isn't a paragraph indent, a change of words, or an ellipses in the world that can help me move forward with a particular work-in-progress.

Yesterday, I received the revision suggestions for a personal experience essay I had written. The editor's feedback was very detailed and constructive, at least in terms of what to change, if not how. The trouble is that she wants me to ground my essay in more specifics about my situation during the time period I had written about, more sensory details. I immediately understood her point and how revising in this way would make for a much stronger piece. And yet.

The truth is, there are many details about that time period which are very fuzzy and sketchy for me, and many, too, that I don't want to remember. There was some pretty awful stuff going on (which are not the focus of the essay) in the background.

Another truth is, a personal experience essay which lacks details does not amount to excellent writing.

The whole dilemma encapsulates questions which have become increasingly important to me as a person, a therapist, and a writer. How important is revisiting and/or clarifying specific memories? To a person? A therapy or recovery process? A piece of writing which is overtly about something else?

A friend told me of the time when he had tried, as a teenager, to tell a trusted adult that he had been sexually abused as a young child, but had only sketchy memories and disturbing nightmares about it at this time. He hoped the adult would connect him with a mental health professional. Instead, he was told, "I think you've seen too many after school specials." The memories sank to the bottom of a well, largely inaccessible to him from then on, apart from bad dreams and a lingering feeling of dread about life, the idea that the world is unsafe, that people cannot be trusted.

What are the costs and benefits of revisiting banished memories? What are the costs and benefits of keeping them away?

Next month, I will begin taking a series of trainings about trauma and recovery. I hope it will answer some of my personal and professional questions about dealing with memories.

As for my writer questions on this subject? I welcome feedback from any of my writer friends about how they've navigated this issue. (Brave Creative Nonfiction Majors, I'm talking especially to you!)

In the meantime, it's just me, some shadowy memories, and some words on the page needing improvement.

1 comment:

  1. While I'd like to say there is always a benefit to revisiting memories, sometimes it is not completely necessary for the sake of one's art. There are many, many things I remember about beautiful and painful periods in my life. That doesn't mean that the specifics of those memories end up in my writing. The purpose, for me, for nonfiction is to write creatively, to use the skills I've learned to create a moment for the reader. So, in the end, not every remembered thing needs to be recorded.

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