Someone recently asked me why I love literature and writing so much. This happens more than I would have expected when first declaring myself as an English major. “Writing is just too boring,” they said. As a student of literature, you can guess that I was a little disappointed to hear their opinion of the written word. Despite how many times I have been asked this question, I feel that I can never give an adequate response right away. Fittingly, it is only when I am given the chance to sit down and express my thoughts through writing am I able to discuss my passion. Even so, I feel that my explanations are never enough; there is always more to why we are so intrigued by topics.
We write to remember, and to forget. We write to forgive, to explore, and to express. We write to make a mess, and we write to make cohesive sense of an event. No matter why we write, we do it. We pick up our pens and scribble, draw, or write random words. We write whole sentences, and paragraphs, and pages. We open our computers and tick tack away, watching the letters turn into words that flow from our brains to our hands. We create these words, these images, these stories, and these documentations. But they also create us. They move and shift us. They disturb us, and set us at peace. They infiltrate our thoughts and affect our interpretations. We bring a piece of ourselves into writing. Fiction or non-fiction, there is always some speck of who we are in our words. Our experiences and the memories of our experiences seep into writing, no matter how hard we try to remain distant.
I recently finished a memoir, The Memory Palace, by Mira Bartok that explores the untrusting nature of memory. Recent research by psychologists, as Mira tells, proves that the human mind is infinitely more complex than assumed. When we remember and extract a memory from our mental storage unit, we are often recreating things that might not have truly happened. Every time we retell a story, something happens to the brain’s neurons that create a chemical change. In our lives, we rely so heavily on our memories. They allow us to maintain our identity, to give us a sense of where we came from and who we continue to be. We use our memories as points of reference so we don’t feel lost or out of place. But what does it mean when current research is proving that memories are extremely unreliable? In a sense, we are being told that we create our own memories; what we believe to be held as factual and truthful may indeed not hold accountability.
I find this interesting, because it causes me to wonder about the genre of memoir and memoir-writing. If we create our own memories, our own stories, how can we believe the words a memoir-writer says? How do we know that what we have just read is true, and how do we trust them? In the end, it doesn’t matter. Unless you are a journalist or biographer, you don’t have to have one hundred percent truth. The memoir genre is beautiful in the sense that it combines both fiction and non-fiction. It allows you to take pieces of the past, things from your or someone else’s perspective, and create a story out of it- imagination and memory work together to produce an authentic story bound by perspective and intuition.
So when I think about writing and literature, and why I love it so much, I remind myself that it’s like a key that unlocks so much more. It allows us to explore and experience things we may have never been given the chance to. For me, reading and writing is a mainstay, a source of lifeblood. No matter what your passions are, remember that writing can help you dig into the core meaning and purpose of their existence in your life.