Ooh, smoked oysters! I can see the amber color oil in that tin. Fork or toothpick? Crackers or each neatly slurped on its own? Plenty of detail in one sentence.
In my experience, hope shows up at the back door with its rusted hinges and dirty screen, often cloaked in humility and whiffing of suspect, but I try to let it in, too.
Sweet baby Jesus, Abigail!!! WHAT a literary triumph. 1. The difference between poetry and prose; 2. The secret to masterful writing; 3. Forgetting as a part of memory; and, 4. (So brilliant) A fragment of the past—real or not and maybe even yours—come to the door of now disheveled and breathless. Thank you. Thank you.
"Life isn’t something that fits together like a puzzle, each piece locking into place with the one before and the one after. At least mine hasn’t."
And I thought it was just me ;)
This is a wonderful essay. I'd seen some of your work before, but I guess nothing hit as deeply as this one post.
You also wrote: "What we have forgotten has had its say in what shapes us, although it is done more or less behind our backs. It wasn’t long ago that it occurred to me that forgetting is part of memory."
Oh how I love that. Now I understand WHY I cannot remember what I am trying to write about. As my mother used to tell us when she'd forget something, "well it must not have been that important anyway."
Thank you, but don't stop writing what you are wanting and trying to write. Who knows? Some tiny thing may get you there. We never know, reallly, do we? How this writing and memory and forgetting thing works? Don't stop.
No worries! This year I finish the book about my grandmother (born in 1884, died 1966). The one I started writing five years ago. A book that has dogged me since 2006 when I first saw the initial chapter as if it were an imaginary scene in a period movie while I time-traveled to the distant past. Oh, have to say, while I was completely stoned! I could swear I remember things that happened before I was born, but I assume it's just fancy!
Not fancy. Sometimes we are given permission --why what I don't know,--and by whom, ditto-- to visit other times. My grandmother, Bigmom, was born in 1888 and died in 1976. She was really something. I know yours was too. Hurry up and finish the book so I can read it.And I bet your grandmother will be delighted.
Thank you for your encouragement. I am beginning again today. Going back to the initial drafts before I started tearing them apart all confused about theme, story and something called a story arc. The hell with that. I'm just going to keep going and see where it takes me, theme, arc or lack thereof! Some day, I will say I am an "Author" and really mean it! A few literal journal successes seemed to have faded in my mind as important enough to call myself that. I think it's because my grandmother stopped visiting me when I stopped listening to her ...
Banish the words "narrative arc" from your mind immediately. Means shit. Just write. "Theme," too. All those nonsensical rules. Make what you are going to make. It is yours to invent.
Nancy, thank you so much. I love the idea of all those missing oieces wrapped uo, waiting to be opened. I don't think they will mind if we rip them open, to see what's inside.
"What we have forgotten has had its say in what shapes us, although it is done more or less behind our backs."
"Now and then, something shows up out of nowhere, maybe wet with rain and out of breath, but it’s a good idea to open the door, welcome it home, no matter the message it brings. Then start writing."
Love this whole piece, Abby, what a wonderful gift and reminder for the New Year! You are also a poet! Love you!
"What we have forgotten has had its say in what shapes us, although it is done more or less behind our backs. It wasn’t long ago that it occurred to me that forgetting is part of memory." I love this. I'm going to write it down so as not to forget it!
You are a natural born teacher, Abigail. And yes, yes! Gaps in our memories are a huge part of the whole story. My brain and ability to bring back memories is sharp at sixty-five, but selective. I sometimes wonder if I blur out times I don’t want to dwell on. My husband has Alzheimer’s. I sift through memories everyday to keep conversations going for what it’s worth. He shakes his head at my skills for remembering names, places, details, but it really doesn’t mean anything to him. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything to the reader either.
This is beautiful, Abby. I love the notion that forgetting is part of memory. So true, and so important to consider that as we write. Happy New Year!
Thank you, Brooke. I am smiling now.
Maybe wet with rain and out of breath. ABBY you nailed it 💕
Ginny, thank you, thank you.
I look forward to reading a lot more of your beautiful writing in the years to come!
much love to you and yours
And the same love to you. I sit here with a tin of smoked oysters to bring luck for the New Year, and nice bottle of rye. I hope you are ready too.
Ooh, smoked oysters! I can see the amber color oil in that tin. Fork or toothpick? Crackers or each neatly slurped on its own? Plenty of detail in one sentence.
Fork, oil dripping all over me. Delicious. Happy New Year, Ina!
Makes me think of a huge old hotel, some rooms with lights, occupied by full bodied ghosts, others empty.
Oh, I love that. Oh wow. Now I'm going to let that take me somewhere. I can see it right in front of me. Thank you. Oh, my! Thank you for this.
I love this so much. What a start to a New Year--and forgetting this past one. xo
Forgetting 2025 as fast as I can too. What a putrescent year, but poked through with some hope, a word I rarely use. And thank you very much.
In my experience, hope shows up at the back door with its rusted hinges and dirty screen, often cloaked in humility and whiffing of suspect, but I try to let it in, too.
Sweet baby Jesus, Abigail!!! WHAT a literary triumph. 1. The difference between poetry and prose; 2. The secret to masterful writing; 3. Forgetting as a part of memory; and, 4. (So brilliant) A fragment of the past—real or not and maybe even yours—come to the door of now disheveled and breathless. Thank you. Thank you.
Thank you, Susan. I love when what I write pleases you. But you already know that.
Thank you, thank you..
Simply brilliant!
Thank you very much, but I'm not worthy of brilliance. But I loved that you said it.
"Life isn’t something that fits together like a puzzle, each piece locking into place with the one before and the one after. At least mine hasn’t."
And I thought it was just me ;)
This is a wonderful essay. I'd seen some of your work before, but I guess nothing hit as deeply as this one post.
You also wrote: "What we have forgotten has had its say in what shapes us, although it is done more or less behind our backs. It wasn’t long ago that it occurred to me that forgetting is part of memory."
Oh how I love that. Now I understand WHY I cannot remember what I am trying to write about. As my mother used to tell us when she'd forget something, "well it must not have been that important anyway."
Forgetting makes way for new memories.
Thank you, but don't stop writing what you are wanting and trying to write. Who knows? Some tiny thing may get you there. We never know, reallly, do we? How this writing and memory and forgetting thing works? Don't stop.
No worries! This year I finish the book about my grandmother (born in 1884, died 1966). The one I started writing five years ago. A book that has dogged me since 2006 when I first saw the initial chapter as if it were an imaginary scene in a period movie while I time-traveled to the distant past. Oh, have to say, while I was completely stoned! I could swear I remember things that happened before I was born, but I assume it's just fancy!
Not fancy. Sometimes we are given permission --why what I don't know,--and by whom, ditto-- to visit other times. My grandmother, Bigmom, was born in 1888 and died in 1976. She was really something. I know yours was too. Hurry up and finish the book so I can read it.And I bet your grandmother will be delighted.
Thank you for your encouragement. I am beginning again today. Going back to the initial drafts before I started tearing them apart all confused about theme, story and something called a story arc. The hell with that. I'm just going to keep going and see where it takes me, theme, arc or lack thereof! Some day, I will say I am an "Author" and really mean it! A few literal journal successes seemed to have faded in my mind as important enough to call myself that. I think it's because my grandmother stopped visiting me when I stopped listening to her ...
Banish the words "narrative arc" from your mind immediately. Means shit. Just write. "Theme," too. All those nonsensical rules. Make what you are going to make. It is yours to invent.
I decided to do that last month when I realized the person who derailed me meant well but just pushed me off track. Thanks!
Thank you for this, Abby. I think the things I’ve forgotten have probably saved me.
There's that, of course. Yes. And thank you, Lisa. Happy New Year to you.
Happy New Year to you, Abby!
Thank you for: “What we have forgotten has had its say in what shapes us, although it is done more or less behind our backs.” Happy new year!
Thank you, and Happy New Year to you, too. So pleased you liked that part. It's so mysterious, isn;t it?
You made my day, Abby…and wrapped the missing pieces in fantastical bows and ribbons of gratefulness!
Nancy, thank you so much. I love the idea of all those missing oieces wrapped uo, waiting to be opened. I don't think they will mind if we rip them open, to see what's inside.
"What we have forgotten has had its say in what shapes us, although it is done more or less behind our backs."
"Now and then, something shows up out of nowhere, maybe wet with rain and out of breath, but it’s a good idea to open the door, welcome it home, no matter the message it brings. Then start writing."
Love this whole piece, Abby, what a wonderful gift and reminder for the New Year! You are also a poet! Love you!
So are you, darling Ingeborg, and thank you. Hugs and kisses for the New Year. Please may it be different from this old one.
Please, please... Hugs and kisses back.
"What we have forgotten has had its say in what shapes us, although it is done more or less behind our backs. It wasn’t long ago that it occurred to me that forgetting is part of memory." I love this. I'm going to write it down so as not to forget it!
Thanks, Nancy. So happy you liked this.
Happy new year, dear Abby. Thank you for bringing us all into these moments. Thank you for bringing me in. Much love.
Oh, Annie. So much love to you, too. Happiest of New Years to you.
My lack of memory is as helpful as my memory to my writing. Great piece
You are a natural born teacher, Abigail. And yes, yes! Gaps in our memories are a huge part of the whole story. My brain and ability to bring back memories is sharp at sixty-five, but selective. I sometimes wonder if I blur out times I don’t want to dwell on. My husband has Alzheimer’s. I sift through memories everyday to keep conversations going for what it’s worth. He shakes his head at my skills for remembering names, places, details, but it really doesn’t mean anything to him. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything to the reader either.