In the story of my life, libraries have been the setting. The answers I sought have always been found there, whether I was delving into Yeats’ symbolism or a breastfeeding dilemma. However, it was the question, “What shall I do with my life?” that somehow eluded me for so long. The answer was of course, at the library. I didn’t just want to read the books there – I wanted to write one, to make my own contribution to the catalog.
I reject the phrase, “the writing life.” I am also a hypocrite because, on occasion, I use the phrase “the writing life” as a catch-all to describe my life as a writer. It’s a poor excuse for a catch-all, the phrase. It attempts to lump all writers into a monolithic construct–a box, I mean–as though all writers write the same words, or write with the same style, or perceive the world through the same eyes.
Ask a group of adults what they remember about the first day of school and you’ll get a wide range of responses—everything from excitement and anticipation to anxiety and dread. Can you remember anything about your first day of fifth grade? What about your first day as a senior in high school, when, finally, you made it to the top of the heap?
I decided to peer into the brain itself and see why we remember the things we do, and why the squishy mass inside our heads will often play tricks on us. I am fortunate to work at a college with an excellent psychology program, so all I had to do was stroll across campus to speak to Dr. Jean Pretz, assistant professor of psychology at Elizabethtown College. She answered some of my burning memory questions from the perspective of a cognitive psychologist.
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When they announced Bev’s name, I think I half expected Drew Barrymore to walk out onto the stage. I had just watched Riding in Cars with Boys only weeks earlier and, despite having read the book first, the image of a brown-haired Barrymore with a Brooklyn accent still resonated in my subconscious. Instead, a slim, tall woman with a very full wig, a funky hat and a glittery dress walked out onto the stage.
… So ran the 1988 TV commercial for Time-Life Books’ Mysteries of the Unknown series—something I always associate with my first time. I was 9. And by “first time”, of course, I mean the first time that crippling panic consumed me. After seeing that ad, I couldn’t sleep for months.
The boxes are sitting on my Seattle steps, bright white against the dark, mildew-stained stairs. I heft them up; they’re surprisingly heavy. I elbow my way inside the front door and drop them on the table with a thump. The red and blue lettering reveals nothing about what’s inside, though I have my suspicions.
Everyone can get involved with Hippocampus Magazine with {prompts}! Each month, we’ll post a new creative nonfiction prompt, inspired by a real-life event. Fact is stranger than fiction–if we experience something unbelievable, others must have a similar story. Submit your response to the {prompt} below; submissions should be 300 words or less and submitted by…
