The other day, I was reading a book about writing fiction, and the author suggested that writers who don't face their fears aren't really accomplishing what they need to as writers. They aren't going all the way, so to speak.
At first, I couldn't think of what it is I fear. I fear so many and so few things at the same time.
Later that night, while attempting to organize some boxes at my house, I recognized one of my fears, packed away safely in that spare room: my fear of the past. For almost 8 years now, I have paid for a small storage room just across the block from my house. It has been filled with miscellaneous bits of camping equipment and boxes of tax records, photos, home movies, and other junk not worth the cost of storage. It occurred to me tonight, as I was going through some of this stuff, that instead of storage, I was really paying for the convenience of not having to look at or otherwise deal with these memories. Just looking at the labels of the video tapes (home movies) filled me with a sense of dread and self-loathing regrets.
As I sorted through these boxes, I came very close to throwing away most of the home movies without watching them, because I figured that would be both painful and unproductive. What is the good of home movies anyway, unless the whole family stays together and they can be enjoyed nostalgically? Inevitably, someone will end up appearing on screen who has either died or disappeared for good.
Something about one of the video compilations caught my eye, though, so I decided to plug it into the VCR and see what I would be throwing away. As I watched the forgotten home movies spin like colorful and distant memories on the TV screen, I realized what the fiction-writing expert meant about facing your fears. Rather than simply feeling depressed or miserable while watching these images, I felt deep stirrings within, coupled with a renewed desire to write. On the TV screen I watched strange pictures of rooms in houses I no longer own, filled with furniture and other belongings that have long since disappeared. There were amazingly beautiful mountain vistas in Alaska, and some stunning images of my sister Wendy at age 20 or so – that film alone is worth saving the video for.
The videos were much higher quality than I expected, but more importantly, the settings and people gave rise to many ideas for writing, unexplored settings and situations that I had been avoiding (and missing out on) by neglecting my past. I must admit I've been in a funk since watching these videos, but I think it's a "good" funk, a sign of being alive and attached to my own life.
PS. For those of you paying attention, my blog on myspace will now duplicate what is posted here.
At first, I couldn't think of what it is I fear. I fear so many and so few things at the same time.
Later that night, while attempting to organize some boxes at my house, I recognized one of my fears, packed away safely in that spare room: my fear of the past. For almost 8 years now, I have paid for a small storage room just across the block from my house. It has been filled with miscellaneous bits of camping equipment and boxes of tax records, photos, home movies, and other junk not worth the cost of storage. It occurred to me tonight, as I was going through some of this stuff, that instead of storage, I was really paying for the convenience of not having to look at or otherwise deal with these memories. Just looking at the labels of the video tapes (home movies) filled me with a sense of dread and self-loathing regrets.
As I sorted through these boxes, I came very close to throwing away most of the home movies without watching them, because I figured that would be both painful and unproductive. What is the good of home movies anyway, unless the whole family stays together and they can be enjoyed nostalgically? Inevitably, someone will end up appearing on screen who has either died or disappeared for good.
Something about one of the video compilations caught my eye, though, so I decided to plug it into the VCR and see what I would be throwing away. As I watched the forgotten home movies spin like colorful and distant memories on the TV screen, I realized what the fiction-writing expert meant about facing your fears. Rather than simply feeling depressed or miserable while watching these images, I felt deep stirrings within, coupled with a renewed desire to write. On the TV screen I watched strange pictures of rooms in houses I no longer own, filled with furniture and other belongings that have long since disappeared. There were amazingly beautiful mountain vistas in Alaska, and some stunning images of my sister Wendy at age 20 or so – that film alone is worth saving the video for.
The videos were much higher quality than I expected, but more importantly, the settings and people gave rise to many ideas for writing, unexplored settings and situations that I had been avoiding (and missing out on) by neglecting my past. I must admit I've been in a funk since watching these videos, but I think it's a "good" funk, a sign of being alive and attached to my own life.
PS. For those of you paying attention, my blog on myspace will now duplicate what is posted here.
2 comments:
This is the very reason why I couldn't live in my hometown. Too many "marvelous" prompts for stories, pain, fear, anger. You're brave for watching the home movies.
I think there is something empowering about having those old records taped up in an old box and retained. It's like having a tiger or a bear caged out back. There is power and pain captured (not that I recommend keeping wild animals), enclosed, kept in line, and overwhelmingly dominated.
We are supposed to clean out our lives, keep it neat and clean, and not hold onto these things. The garage sale people say it is liberating. I don't know about that. It is our history if we own it. Things, places remind us, if of nothing else, but to bear witness.
Keep those things, BD. We all need to bear witness.
Thanks, T. I love the caged tiger metaphor.
It's funny and sad to think about what happens to these home movies and photographs in the long term. Sometimes I'll see random home movies on ebay, offered for sale and purchased by people who don't know the subjects. It's sad to think that these movies just end up as mysteries, flickering images of forgotten people, but it's also interesting to think that someone else finds them valuable as random bits of middle-class lore.
Post a Comment