“Memory is the way we keep telling ourselves our stories – and telling other people a somewhat different version of our stories.”
- Alice Munro
I’m never prepared for it, but am always grateful for the sudden appearance of a new story idea.
On a recent long-haul flight to visit the Non-Resident Thespian (formerly the Resident Teenager) in his new and distant city, I enjoyed a liesurely read of the Saturday paper, knit a few rows of whatever was on the needles, took advantage of the complimentary beverage service (juice, thanks), and sat back for a snooze. I’d barely reached the state where thoughts and sounds flit about of their own accord, when a memory long-buried under decades of living popped up for a re-visit. It was nothing special, nothing momentous, just an ordinary thing that happened when I was ten years old at summer camp.
But it’s these ordinary things that lend themselves to Story. This one forced me awake with a gasp, reaching for pen and paper. I spent who-knows how long scribbling notes, embellishing and giving shape to this small event in my life.
Sometimes it takes a wee jolt, such as a flight from everyday life, to jostle the psyche into handing over ideas that might not otherwise present themselves. I’ll not take this little gift for granted. With a bit of luck and a lot of hard work, I’ll get a story out of it.