Admittedly, I have never been one to make New Year's resolutions. Generally, for me, the first day of a new year comes and goes, with little--if any--fanfare. But this year's a little different. My creative output has been quite small the past couple of years. After The Eye-Dancers and its sequel, The Singularity Wheel, I simply wasn't struck with many ideas that jumped out in front of me, demanding my attention. On the rare occasions when they did happen, they had only temporary appeal before fading away, like background music you slowly walk away from.
Until this past week.
It was the way it often happens--sudden, like a bolt of lightning in a cornflower-blue sky. Unasked for. Unexpected. As I was taking a walk (something, by the way, that I've often found to unlock a helping of creativity), I had an odd memory come to me. Ninth grade, years ago. A different century. One day in science class, we had a substitute teacher. I still remember his name--Disraeli. And that's exactly how he referred to himself--not "Mr. Disraeli." Just "Disraeli."
He eschewed the regular lesson plan that day, and instead quizzed us on riddles and mind-teasers. He offered puzzles, multiple-choice philosophical questions. He even read from his own books--passages that he believed to be enlightening. And they were. He didn't seem to care about the syllabus or what we'd been learning about in the weeks prior. He just took his day and taught what he wanted. I never saw him again.
But he left an impression.
From that memory, a story idea emerged--at once related and unrelated. The idea also revolved around a high school substitute teacher--but this one is an English teacher. Call him Mr. Robbins. He, too, ignores the lesson plan on his one day teaching a particular class. It's ninth grade, a snowy day in upstate New York. The students are feeling lazy, unmotivated . . . until Mr. Robbins asks them a probing question.
"Are you alive?"
Some of the students pause, briefly, then shrug. Others laugh, thinking it's a joke. But one student--call him James--sits there, rapt, listening to the substitute teacher's lesson. It's not a question James has ever asked himself. But he's a cerebral introvert, enjoys reading, thinking. He's all ears.
Mr. Robbins carries on. He explains that our lives--if we are lucky and not stricken by poverty and oppression or war and famine--are generally spent on mundane things--getting up in the morning, brushing our teeth, eating breakfast, doing homework (which elicits an understanding groan from the class), finishing chores, going shopping, riding the bus, getting stuck in traffic. On and on.
But there are moments--graduations, weddings, reunions, deaths, first loves, a game-winning home run--that stay with us, where the stakes rise, the importance magnifies, and our brains tell us, even at a subconscious level--to remember.
Do we, though? Yes, we remember bits and pieces. But, even with life's monumental moments, there is much we forget. And the mundane things? They come and go like the wind, like breath on a cold morning, here one minute; gone the next. So much of our existence is forgotten--almost as though it were never lived at all.
And so, Mr. Robbins asks again, "Are you alive? Really alive? If you forget your life away? If nothing lasts in your memory aside from a few cloudy details here and there? Is anything real?"
He really has James's attention now. The ninth grader hangs on Mr. Robbins's every word.
The substitute teacher then explains a method he's devised--a way of capturing memories, moments, as they happen--recording them on paper in such a way that, ten years hence, twenty years, thirty years, forty--you can reread what you wrote and the experience will come crashing back to you like Niagara Falls. By this juncture, the majority of the class is fully tuned out, openly talking amongst themselves, not worried about what a zany substitute might do to them.
But James listens.
Mr. Robbins carries on, making eye contact with James several times, as if understanding he has a serious acolyte, someone in the sea of freshmen before him who might learn and practice and realize. He explains that, as soon as possible, within minutes of the moment you want to memorialize, write it down. Capture it while it's fresh. But don't write like a standard journal entry. No. Write in a structured way, detailing what happened, factually and specifically. The time frame--how long it took. Who was involved--what were they wearing? What did they say? Facial expressions? What perfume or cologne were they wearing? Where were you? In a public place? Describe it! As many details as you can. In your house? What room? What time was it, exactly? Were there dishes in the sink? Was the TV on in the background? What was it playing? Essentially, a detailed record of events, capturing everything--every detail. No matter how minute, how seemingly insignificant. Leave nothing out. Anything can be a trigger later on for the brain, for the subconscious to remember the event you are chronicling. One detail can serve as the lead domino that, when knocked over, slams into all the rest, allowing the memory to come alive decades later when the entry is read. In this way, you can capture moments of your life--they can be big or small, singular or mundane. If you want to memorialize what you had for breakfast and how you feel on a given day, do this same process. It will stick. It will work.
And then, after you record every detail you can possibly think of, then, at that point, write how you feel. What is it about this moment you are capturing that sticks with you? What effect does it have on you? Write that down. And then--you have it. As much as you can remember something years later . . . you will remember this. Your vivid writing of events and your immediate reflections afterward, etched on the page, will preserve as much as is humanly possible. Like an heirloom, an organism preserved in amber, it will remain, able to be called to the surface of your conscious mind whenever you read it. Do this with enough life events and you will leave a preserved record--not so much for others (though they would certainly be able to ascertain much from your detailed accounts), but for yourself. For your ability to remember and recall.
To live and not to forget.
Such is the story idea I have. Essentially a journey into what makes a life a life. What does living mean? Why do we remember what we remember, and are we more fully alive if we find a way to vividly remember more moments of our lives.
I surely won't finish this novel in 2024. But I'll start it. And make a memory.
Thanks so much for reading!
Mike
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