One of my favorite places…
I have a favorite place—my memory place. It’s comfy and quiet and has the best view, but I’m rarely taking in that view for long. Once I sink down onto the cushioned seat of my grandfather’s rocker, everything in front of me fades and I relive memories. The time I caught five fish on a fishing trip with Grandpa, my dad, and my brother while no one else caught even one. Watching Grandpa play his organ. Pinochle games with Grandma, who miraculously always seemed to be dealt the Queen of Spades and/or the Jack of Diamonds. My Uncle Jim’s booming laugh and fabulous greeting of “Well, hello, Kristen!” Sitting in church next to Grammy Ritzel lip-syncing to her gorgeous mezzo soprano voice that caused congregation members to turn and stare. My imagination proving its worth as I showered myself with their praises, convinced everyone believed that voice was coming from my throat.
I even wrote a short piece a while back about my favorite place called “The Rocker” trying to describe how intensely this simple piece of furniture affected me. I doubt highly that I even came close to explaining the rocker’s effect on me. That’s how it is with nostalgia and memories. We can explain it only on the surface. The deeper explanation of worth is more often than not, way too difficult to relay. That’s how I feel about this rocker and its absolutely perfect spot in my room with its soul-calming view of the Smoky Mountains that often get interlaced or covered by memories—good and bad. Good, mostly, but the horrid can find a way in as well.
After my daughter challenged me or urged me to do something with my terrible middle schoolesque fan fiction, I retreated to the rocker and sat, staring at the mountains and letting my mind grapple with the ideas of the stories I had already written. Soon, my imagination kicked in and my mind, using daydreams, started working. The old stories resurfaced, but they quickly morphed into something beyond the fan fiction. Soon, I grabbed a notebook and began writing. It wasn’t long until the stories and characters only remotely resembled the originals and once I started typing them on my Macbook, they were something very different.
Many of the scenes were adapted from my life, my memories; and the characters took on attributes of my friends and family and even a few extremely memorable students. The unremarkable pageantry of my life quickly became mirrored in my stories with a bit more pomp, circumstance, and a lot more fantasy added. That’s how it goes with the creative, though. We use what is most known to us—our world, ourselves, our people—and meld them into our work—art, stories, poems, essays, music. Everything we create holds pieces of ourselves, some more so than others; but that’s what makes them inspiring and helps them speak to our audiences. It’s also why not everyone in our audience is going to appreciate our work. Or appreciate every aspect of it. It’s ours and reflects us and us alone.
So, if anyone were to ask me about what to create, what they should or shouldn’t say with and in their work, my answer would be: create your truth. What speaks to you and comes from your heart. Every piece you create should carry you within it, whether others see that or not.