I discovered for the 400th time recently that memory, no matter how you perceive it, is vital to who you are or who you become. Somehow, while nostalgia continues to be a motivator, I’ve found a way to obscure or manipulate how my memories evolve. I translate or obscure what has actually happened in my life to become the thoughts or ideas that my mind has imagined. It’s a false reality that I’m comfortable with and that means what I need it to mean with no intention of ill will. It’s safe and okay.
I think that this is directly related to wanting to be a writer (?) and may, I guess, be considered a hazard or problem for some. The way I break this down is this – when I was snot nosed and starry eyed, I knew that I had to experience cool shit to write about cool shit. And I guess I did. But, well, when the cool shit was happening wasn’t the cool shit that I wanted to be a part of, I found ways to make what I was doing, days later, after the events happened, cool shit. Never out loud or relayed to anyone as fact, I would obscure events, conversations, and whatever the hell I wanted to to make what I thought was a good story.
I guess maybe all writers do this in some way or other but what I’m thinking is that in some weird, to me, way, everything that happens now goes through this fiction machine immediately and either gets tapped out on a keyboard soon after or it remains living in my head with the actual events. Two versions. Sometimes very similar. Sometimes very different. Sometimes hard to tell which one actually happened.
Again, not a problem. Adding spice to the dish or something like that.