Daffodils are a funny flower. I saw a single daffodil poking up out of a corner the other day and I actually laughed out loud it looked so ridiculous. Daffodils are like cartoon ducks. I can almost hear them quack. You can’t help but love them and think them silly all at once.
When I was a kid we had these giant plastic beads that you could stick together into a chain. There was one bead in particular that I returned to over and over. There is a picture of my brother and I dressed up for church, perhaps Easter Sunday? In it I am holding my purple bead in a white gloved hand and Sean is making faces at the camera, which was pretty par for the course those days.
I’ve been told that I carried the purple bead wherever I went, but I don’t remember this attachment or even playing with it. This is out of character for me. Images and physical descriptors are usually an afterthought in my memories and imaginings. Yet it is the look and feel of the bead that I remember. It was just the right shade of purple–rich and grapey, more red than blue. The bead filled my hand in a way few things do now that they have gotten bigger.
Beyond this, my parents’ memories are far more reliable and entertaining than mine.
Ryan and I were poking around trying to think of wedding songs and were reminded of this one by Harry Connick Jr. This version is from When Harry Met Sally, which we watch, without fail, at least once a year. I’ve been listening to it on loop thinking of how happy I am that I’m getting married, which tells me that this might just be our song.
It had to be you, it had to be you
I wandered around, and finally found
The somebody who could make me be true
Could make me be blue or even be glad
Just to be sad just thinking of you
Some others I’ve seen might never be mean
Might never be cross or try to be boss
But they wouldn’t do
For nobody else gave me the thrill
With all your faults I love you still
It had to be you
It had to be you
It had to be you
In an effort to take up writing as an earnest and sustained effort in the future, I have begun to re-read Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. This book is full of wonderful advice for both the serious and amateur writer.
One piece of advice Lamott offers up, is to begin by writing about your childhood. There is something about reflecting on these memories that brings the details of life to light. As adults, we learn to draw connections, develop philosophies, and see the ‘big picture.’ Kids are focused on the details in the here and now. It’s these details, all added up, that make for great writing.
As readers, we don’t want to be beaten over the head with the author’s point. We much prefer reaching our own conclusions–the author’s job is to write such that we can do this and do this well.
So, I’m going to give it a go. I’ll start by drafting quick descriptions of memories that I have, breaking them down as much as possible. Someday I’ll return to them and fix them up and maybe turn them into some real piece of writing. Perhaps not, but in the end, it’s the process that is valuable to me, not the end product. Remembering this will hopefully help me to write without hesitation or inhibition.