Monday musings: The difference between imagination and memory

Photo: Photo by Vidar Kristiansen on Unsplash

What’s the difference between the way a writer imagines a realistic scene, and the way a reader experiences something? Could it be similar to the difference between the way we watch a motion picture about, say, a day at the lake, and the way we remember a day at the lake?

I sometimes edit novels for other writers, looking for ways to improve the story and the way it’s told, without changing the author’s voice.

I have noticed I often change or suggest a change to a particular kind of writing: excessive description of a sequence of small actions. They’re little things that happen in a story, but that the reader doesn’t need to read. And it makes me think about the difference between the way we remember and the way we imagine.

I’ll make up an example here:

She pulled the lever and opened the car door. She stepped onto the dirt driveway in front of the summer cabin, and walked past the old porch in front. She passed the little cedar trees that had never grown very high, past the big old maple and down to the wooden dock. She walked to the end, and sat down on the boards. She removed her sandals and dipped her bare feet into the lake, only to jerk them out—cold!

It’s way too wordy. Sure, it describes what happened. It takes the reader through all the action. But it doesn’t actually bring the reader into the setting. And do we really need to read every single action?

When I think back to summer days at the lake, I don’t really think of long sequences. My memories are things like seeing my grandfather standing in his wooden boat, tinkering with something in his hands as the boat bobbed gently on the water. Or the backs of my father and grandfather, looking up at the big tin barrel that collected rainwater as the wind rippled the backs of their shirts. Or sitting on a dull, cloudy afternoon on a big rock over the shore, my uncle beside me, holding a toy fishing rod in my hand.

Which brings me to the original question: what’s the difference between imagination and memory?

It’s an important question, as things like “false memory syndrome” have a bearing on criminal cases. And maybe it’s part of the profound influence of motion pictures on our whole society.

Think about the passage above. It’s not from any particular book, but it’s typical of what I tend to tell a writer to re-write. And it’s kind of cinematic. It might be the way a screenwriter would provide instructions to a cinematographer. It has all the action, something that an actor and a camera operator could follow.

This is how I remember arriving at my grandfather’s summer cottage.

Thin fir boles and low-hanging evergreen branches framed the back of the cottage. The tires crunched softly over the dirt and forest litter before the car bounced to a stop. I popped out of the back seat—no thought of seat belts then—to be greeted by the scent of forest and water and the outhouse tucked behind a thin screen of bushes.

I ran around the log cabin, reaching out to touch the structure supporting the tin barrel that collected rainwater. The lake gleamed far below the cabin, separated by a steep slope crowded with dark evergreens and lighter deciduous bushes. A bright leopard frog leaped away, into the bushes as my sneaker-clad feet made soft drumbeats on the beaten ground of the path down to the dock.

See? Flashes, like the “Live” setting on photos on my iPhone these days. Not a long cinematic sequence.

What do you think? Are your memories more like cinematic sequences, or short live photographs?


Monday Musings: Advice from Dorthea Brand, Eighty Years Later


by Kathleen Valentine

DBThis afternoon, while searching for something else, I came across an old copy of Dorthea Brand’s 1934 classic book Becoming A Writer. I had not thought about it in years and, because it was a lovely day here, I took it out to my back porch and began re-reading parts of it. I am not sure whether it is because I am now much older and have been writing for a long time, but I found the book surprisingly dated. Now I am wondering if that is just me, or if it is possible for a book such as this one to become dated.

To be fair, there was some good advice in it. One of the chapters, on learning to see, was something we cannot be reminded of too often. It has long been said that a writer is someone who misses nothing—a thought that I agree with. As an exercise, prompted by Brand’s suggestions, I decided to spend some time looking at the bushes that separate our backyard from the cemetery beyond them. This is quite a large bunch of bushes that have grown up over the years that run the length of the yard. From the ground they are towering and many people do not even know there is a cemetery back there, but from my perch on the second floor the view is different.

As I studied the bushes, I immediately picked out the multiflora rose bushes that smell so lovely in Spring, then the privet bushes with their lacy leaves. Other than those I counted the wild choke cherries that the squirrels get drunk on and stagger around the yard. But there were more. By the time I got done, making note of differences I’d counted a total of seven different bushes, some which I cannot identify. It was a good exercise and I learned that, though I’ve looked at those bushes for years, I’ve never really seen them.

In another chapter she talked about the method of writing. Obviously a lot has changed since 1934 and I could not help but smile at her annoyance with the use of typewriters (typewriters?) For writers accustomed to writing long-hand, the mechanics of pushing down those keys, watching the letters fly up and whack against the ribbon, then see the platen advance, was, apparently, arduous. Not to mention the fact that you had to then use your hand to mechanically return the carriage so you could type the next line. I can only imagine what Ms Brand would think of contemporary keyboards.

But to me the most interesting chapter was about originality. She made some excellent points about staying true to one’s own voice. She also pointed out some examples of writers who tried too hard to be original and wound up sounding pretentious in the process.

Which led me to wonder, do most writers think about being original these days? I wonder about that specifically when it comes to genre books. It seems that so many authors aim to produce the next Harry Potter, or the next Fifty Shades, or the next Game of Thrones. I often see books advertised as “if you liked The DaVinci Code, you’ll love this.” Has this type of advertising always been prevalent?

I have several vintage writing books that I love—especially those by John Gardner—and I know at one time I must have learned a lot from Dorothea Brand if I kept her book all these years. I am a firm believer that we can always learn something new and today I learned there are at least seven different kinds of bushes out back. I really should find out what they are.

Thanks for reading.