My memory is broken and always has been, although it took some time for me to figure this out. Where some folks worry that one day they will be old and will realize they can’t remember why they’re standing in the kitchen in their boxer shorts, that’s how I’ve been since I was born. The past, for me, is formless and vague. I can remember things from my past, of course, but they’re not, like, lived in. I remember things in a detached, academic way.
I also lack any kind of attention to detail. The present sluices through me like a confusing existential wave, and I often barely retain enough information to present myself as a somewhat capable and competent adult as opposed to, say, a shrubbery. This means that my daily interactions are fraught with more stress than they should be, because I am always owlishly trying to make up for my lack of attention to detail with charm and trickery:
THEM: … so, Jeff what do you think of that?
ME: (completely uncertain where I am or what we’ve been talking about or who these people are or why I am sitting at a conference table with 37 people in suits with a stack of papers in front of me and a tuna sandwich in my shirt breast pocket) Uhh …
<and tosses stack of papers into the air>
ME: Everybody dance!
It’s incredible I manage to make it through a day without being committed to an institution. But you know what? My lack of attention to detail actually helps my writing.
Wait, What Was I Saying?
Detail can be confounding for writers, because there’s a sweet spot between too much detail and empty prose that conveys nothing of the flavor of your setting, nothing of the subtleties of your characters’ reactions to things. For folks who have a mastery of detail and great memories, who can conjure up the way something felt or smelled or looked in a precise moment, there’s a huge amount of data they can potentially pour into their writing. And writers usually start off putting way too much detail into their writing as they seek to conquer verisimilitude through sheer volume of words.
Me, since all of my memories are like those scenes in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind where the books are all white with no words because Jim Carrey’s memories are being sucked out of his head, I have the opposite—and, I think, easier—problem: I have to go hunting for more detail to pour into my scenes because, frankly, I can’t remember anything.
It also frees me to, you know, make shit up. I never have to negotiate with myself over whether it’s playing fair to describe something in a way counter to how I actually experienced it, because I can’t remember how I experienced, typically. That basically gives me permission to just imagine it however I want and write it that way. The takeaway is that details are just tools. They’re just bits and pieces and you get to decide how many—if any—your scene or story requires.
For me, I figure it’s probably two, three years tops before I have full on facial aphasia, and I spend all my time watching the same TV show over and over again. Which means I better get cracking on this book.
The physicist Richard Feynman told a story about how he was in Los Alamos, and.a bunch of engineers came into his office with the plans for the piping of some complex plant. He had no idea of this area, didn’t even know what the symbols meant, so he pointed to some obscure symbol on the blueprints and said “what’s that?” The engineers looked at each other, exclaimed “He’s a genius!” and left.
I find the same technique works well when I am judging scientific posters for students, and I am not quite up on the specific topic. I point to a term that I don’t know, and say “What does this mean?” It’s amazing how this trick can help me sort out the students how have a clue, from the ones that are faking it.
So don’t say “Let’s dance!” Ask for someone to give the details on what appears obscure. It doesn’t always work but when it does you will appear to be brilliant.
But I *like* dancing.
This resonates. People who leave their house all the time and pay too much attention write pages of dialogue that reads like a Neil Simon play, and write narrative that reads like a captain’s log.
Now, I’m not saying I’m [insert deity of choice]’s gift to writing; however, since I never leave the house or pay much attention to anything or anyone, I COULD be.
Thanks for the intriguing piece, Jeff. You’re odd, therefore we should be friends. Remotely, or course.
Cheers,
gl