His desk was a collection of unread mail and several coffee cups. A stapler that hasn't been used for years and five different color notebooks, each a potential book. An eight by-eleven framed picture of his kids and grandkids and a box he called his memory box. When his mind went blank and the words wouldn't come, he reached inside the box and imagined grabbing not just air but a phrase or a sentence that would latch on and give him the right words. He knew that sounded silly, but as a writer for many years, he knew it sometimes took a lot of imagination, which he had plenty of.
Sometimes, he would reach into the box and, with his eyes closed, picture his Mom or Dad, bringing back good and bad memories, but always truthful. Other times, he would reach into the box and see the faces of loved ones and lovers. A gateway to his past, a black hole where his mind and heart would travel in search of the memories that made up the stories he wrote.
Everyone needs a memory box—a place to go when the ink has dried, and the words won't flow, an imaginary portal into yesterday's you never want to forget. At least, that's true for me. Although I always think outside the box, I usually find myself deep inside my memory box, where the good stuff dwells, waiting for me to see deep inside a magical and memorable place I can put on paper and hopefully add to a colored notebook.
Mike 2025
No comments:
Post a Comment