Over the summer, Amanda Palmer put out a blog post about her husband, Neil Gaiman's new book. The blog post was emotional. It discussed the artistic process and how it works individually for everyone. She uses this metaphor that every artist's processes are a blender, different artists just have it on different settings.
For example, Amanda keeps hers around a 2-3 (closer to reality) while Neil is an 8-9 (dwelling deep in fantasy and mystique). I think I'm all over the place, although I do tend to stay on the lower end of the scale. Amanda said that in this book, Neil turned his blender much lower than his usual, making it a challenge.
The book was fantastic. A week or two after I read the blog post, I went to my local library to take it out. This was in July, and the waiting list was so long I didn't get it until mid-September.
Now, I don't want to give anything away. It's a book about a man who went back to a place from his childhood and relives one of his childhood memories, in the most literal terms. This book has earned it's spot on my christmas list, because I know I'm going to need my own copy in the future. But that's not what I need to talk about.
The quote used as an introduction to the book is a Maurice Sendak (author of Where the Wild Things Are) quote from 1993. "I remember my own childhood vividly... I knew terrible things. But I knew I mustn't let adults know I knew. It would scare them." When I read this at the beginning of the book, I understood it personally, but didn't take it all that seriously. Over the past year, I've only started vaguely informing my parents of some of my darker-toned memories. After reading the book, I truly understand why this was a perfect fit to start out the book. The entire book is about memory and it's inconsistencies.
Sometimes I sit and just ponder how I've made it this far in life, in my head, knowing all of the things I've known. Seeing all the things I've seen, hearing... you get the point. I spent a long time self-pitying, and I still haven't quite found a spot where I can tell the truth about a lot of my childhood without my emotions getting in the way. I'm an emotional person, sue me. My parents are great people, and I've gotten to the point where I'm scared of talking about what has happened because sixteen years is a long time, enough for a lot of mistakes.
I remember my childhood vividly. I remember my brother's crib and climbing and embarrassment. I was a very self-conscious child. I knew terrible things. I remember the fighting and my sister cutting open her eyelid and my great-aunt being taken away in an ambulance. I don't like telling adults, because I wasn't supposed to remember. No one wants their kids to remember. But I've realized: it's kind of inevitable.
1 comment:
Now you're writing!
This is good stuff! Keep it at this level. Or go higher. But not back.
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