Oddly, my brain is adept at remembering shards of events and conversations from years ago. At least I think that I remember them. But in the summer of 2011 my old high school gang descended for an old girls weekend at my mountain house.
While the pushing sixty gal-pals became comfortable on the deck, catching up, laughing, and telling stories about each other from the old days, I grew uncomfortable. What struck me from this swapping of anecdotes, was my memory maybe wasn’t so accurate. Perhaps our shared events not exactly the way I remembered them. So to use a Carrie Bradshaw moment, “What makes up our past as friends?”
Is it my friend, Mary’s construction of events? Is it Jamie’s, Ona’s or Heidi’s? Now we delve into the metaphysical–what is and what was real?
Perhaps the writing process allows our memories to shape themselves to reflect our own temperaments, our own psychic fingerprints, experiences processed through individual channels. So if I don’t remember life events the same as my old friends, siblings or my spouse, I don’t think anyone is keeping score.
I’ll tell my stories the way I remember them. Even if I’m wrong.