This part of your essay struck me the most: "As soon as we recognize what we are, we are no longer the thing we’ve been. The fog is the dark bar where we fall in love."
As I read your anecdotes illustrating this point, I thought about how unreliable memory is. Yet we do rely upon it to access mundane information like a computer, but also vivid recollections of a time past.
I've been pondering this more lately, as I continue to revise my memoir. What troubled me about starting it in the first place was the very issue about which you write today: that as I remember the past, it cannot be entirely true. It's impossible. The fragments of an experience in time that my brain chose to retain were specific to whatever I wanted, or needed, to remember so that I could integrate that information into the totality of my life and hopefully, maturation.
When I was an undergraduate in psychology, learning about the fallibility of memory fascinated me the most. What about witnesses in court trials? Can their testimonies be solid? Is it acceptable that what I remember about my past differs vastly from the way my mother remembers it? Can my version of a particular holiday be just as true as the divergent rendition my brother tells?
What I've reconciled regarding this matter is this: that each of us imprints what is valuable to us at the time of storing a memory. Our brains distill a moment into spoken phrases, a scent, a facial expression, a setting. And we associate emotions with what we store. These, in turn, inform our worldview and perception. And they aren't wrong. They just are.
I've come to terms with accepting that my version of a story can be true for me, based on my internalization of that experience, while someone else might have felt or noticed or heard entirely different fragments of that same experience. Together, they form a more accurate picture, but it's still incomplete. And it will always be incomplete. So, I work with what I have and trust that the reactions and associations and reflections that result from my memory are good enough to flesh out on the page somehow.
Jeannie. Your comments about Laurie's writing resonate with me. I loved that same quote: "As soon as we recognize what we are, we are no longer the thing we've been". So true.
I plan to write my memoir, but haven't been able to get started. I remember reading other memoirs when I was in my 20s (I just turned 70) and marveling how people could remember so many details and conversations. Well, I now suspect there is a lot of creative non fiction going on in most memoirs. Thanks for your insights into how memory works.
Memory has just about nothing to do with what I write. You have to create a world for the reader to enter through language. Please come to the Xoom conversations, where I talk about all these techniques. You can RSVP to me at: lauriestone@substack.com
I just signed you up and sent you a recording of the August Zoom. I'm so sorry you weren't able to sign up, very weird. I sent you another email in a private message.
It's interesting to learn from your perspective, Laurie. Memory has been a lifeline to me. It has paved the way for healing from past trauma, as well. I believe strongly in the power of the subconscious, mostly because I have a counseling background and I have experienced moments when my subconscious has gripped me with some revelation. I believe it's possible to create a world for the reader to enter into by accessing what you remember, just as it's possible to create a world for the reader without that specific technique. Maybe both are just different ways of telling stories, and both can benefit the reader in different ways.
I will tell you this: I am 43, almost 44, and my memory is spotty at best, after giving birth to five kids (one of whom has a medically complex genetic condition).
Memory is important, and you can craft clearer images and better accuracy by fact checking what you are able: I have asked those who are in my memoir’s key memory pieces to read those segments and tell me if they remember the event or experience’s objective qualities (where it was, time frame, who said what). I don’t expect their interpretation to be the same as mine, and I state that upfront. I simply ask if there’s anything I missed or forgot to include or that I got plain wrong.
One friend from high school corrected me on a dialogue sequence, in which I wrote that she entered college to study social work. She said it was psychology, so I made that change.
It’s things like that that you piece together, one at a time.
But as for the way you remember something formative or vital - that’s where your imprint makes its debut. And no one can dispute the way you metabolized some sort of event.
I would encourage you to begin somewhere. Journal privately. See what surfaces. Many of these memories are stored in our subconscious, and the more we pen what comes to mind - even in segments - the more you will remember. It’s a good practice.
This is an essay about nothing. I devoured it in a rush, start to end, while already late for a PT session. Sometimes the needs of the heart supersede those of the body. Even a body in pain
Laurie, I enjoyed reading today's piece, "Ice in a Glass," very much. As a person who lived in New York for most of my life, walking on Broadway resonates with me in many deeps ways. I saw bookstores appear and disappear, porn appear and disappear, but always the great shows. I also love Hitchock movies (especially "Vertigo") but Eva Marie Saint and Cary Grant were a very interested match. It was all fun to read. Thank you.
I love seeing how you build on your shorter Instagram writing to weave a finished piece and the way you bring your self-awareness into your work always thrills me. "The people who keep coming back, wanting a second chance, or a third or fourth chance, imagining they can charm their way back in, that’s me." and "I was good to my dog because I loved him. He was good to me because it was his nature." Such wonderful writing, as always, Laurie.
Thanks, dear Kelly. I think I will spend some time at the next Zoom talking about how to build a collage piece such as this one that is not an essay and not strictly speaking a narrative story with an arc you can summarize. It's a piece of music that comes and goes without beginning or end. How do you know when a narrative chunk belongs in the mix? How to you decide how to order them? The next Zoom conversation is on Saturday September 14 from 3 to 4 EST. To RSVP, please email me at: lauriestone@substack.com.
I’m very interested in this discussion of non-narrative collage. I’m working on a memoir, but feel I don’t do narrative well, can’t sustain it over the length of a book. But collage is the visual art I do. Thank you, Laurie.
Yes, it's fascinating and I enjoy challenging my mind to let go of the need for there to be a buttoned up arc. I look forward to my Saturdays opening up again so I can join in the Zoom convos, I've missed them! Sadly, I won't be able on the 14th.
So provoking all of your entries, but this one particularly! Now I have to check out Bach ‘‘Brandenberg concerto! Learn something every time I read . You have a fascinatingmind.❤️😊🤔
Late to this one, but I love these lines: "As soon as we recognize what we are, we are no longer the thing we’ve been" (so true, I've never thought of it like this), and "The times I have woken up and asked myself where am I, that is pleasurable, even when the answer isn’t immediate. That combination of not knowing and awakeness is writing." It's genius how you capture a feeling.
I find this piece fascinating. It feels like a wandering stream of consciousness, mixing memory, introspection, and a range of vivid moments that together create a patchwork of life experiences. The non-linear flow invites readers to sink into the fragmented thoughts and anecdotes—almost like snapshots—where each carries emotional weight, and the boundaries between past and present blur. There’s a strong sense of the passage of time, how it reshapes relationships, identity, and perception.
Good morning, Laurie.
This part of your essay struck me the most: "As soon as we recognize what we are, we are no longer the thing we’ve been. The fog is the dark bar where we fall in love."
As I read your anecdotes illustrating this point, I thought about how unreliable memory is. Yet we do rely upon it to access mundane information like a computer, but also vivid recollections of a time past.
I've been pondering this more lately, as I continue to revise my memoir. What troubled me about starting it in the first place was the very issue about which you write today: that as I remember the past, it cannot be entirely true. It's impossible. The fragments of an experience in time that my brain chose to retain were specific to whatever I wanted, or needed, to remember so that I could integrate that information into the totality of my life and hopefully, maturation.
When I was an undergraduate in psychology, learning about the fallibility of memory fascinated me the most. What about witnesses in court trials? Can their testimonies be solid? Is it acceptable that what I remember about my past differs vastly from the way my mother remembers it? Can my version of a particular holiday be just as true as the divergent rendition my brother tells?
What I've reconciled regarding this matter is this: that each of us imprints what is valuable to us at the time of storing a memory. Our brains distill a moment into spoken phrases, a scent, a facial expression, a setting. And we associate emotions with what we store. These, in turn, inform our worldview and perception. And they aren't wrong. They just are.
I've come to terms with accepting that my version of a story can be true for me, based on my internalization of that experience, while someone else might have felt or noticed or heard entirely different fragments of that same experience. Together, they form a more accurate picture, but it's still incomplete. And it will always be incomplete. So, I work with what I have and trust that the reactions and associations and reflections that result from my memory are good enough to flesh out on the page somehow.
Jeannie. Your comments about Laurie's writing resonate with me. I loved that same quote: "As soon as we recognize what we are, we are no longer the thing we've been". So true.
I plan to write my memoir, but haven't been able to get started. I remember reading other memoirs when I was in my 20s (I just turned 70) and marveling how people could remember so many details and conversations. Well, I now suspect there is a lot of creative non fiction going on in most memoirs. Thanks for your insights into how memory works.
Memory has just about nothing to do with what I write. You have to create a world for the reader to enter through language. Please come to the Xoom conversations, where I talk about all these techniques. You can RSVP to me at: lauriestone@substack.com
Hi Laurie. I did try to sign up for the last Zoom, but Substack rejected my email. I'll try again for next month. Thanks!
I just signed you up and sent you a recording of the August Zoom. I'm so sorry you weren't able to sign up, very weird. I sent you another email in a private message.
It's interesting to learn from your perspective, Laurie. Memory has been a lifeline to me. It has paved the way for healing from past trauma, as well. I believe strongly in the power of the subconscious, mostly because I have a counseling background and I have experienced moments when my subconscious has gripped me with some revelation. I believe it's possible to create a world for the reader to enter into by accessing what you remember, just as it's possible to create a world for the reader without that specific technique. Maybe both are just different ways of telling stories, and both can benefit the reader in different ways.
I'm producing pleasure. That's all. Take whatever you enjoy from my techniques and leave the rest on the table. xxL
Most certainly. Thank you, Laurie.
Hi Marlee,
I will tell you this: I am 43, almost 44, and my memory is spotty at best, after giving birth to five kids (one of whom has a medically complex genetic condition).
Memory is important, and you can craft clearer images and better accuracy by fact checking what you are able: I have asked those who are in my memoir’s key memory pieces to read those segments and tell me if they remember the event or experience’s objective qualities (where it was, time frame, who said what). I don’t expect their interpretation to be the same as mine, and I state that upfront. I simply ask if there’s anything I missed or forgot to include or that I got plain wrong.
One friend from high school corrected me on a dialogue sequence, in which I wrote that she entered college to study social work. She said it was psychology, so I made that change.
It’s things like that that you piece together, one at a time.
But as for the way you remember something formative or vital - that’s where your imprint makes its debut. And no one can dispute the way you metabolized some sort of event.
I would encourage you to begin somewhere. Journal privately. See what surfaces. Many of these memories are stored in our subconscious, and the more we pen what comes to mind - even in segments - the more you will remember. It’s a good practice.
Thanks so much fir the encouragement, Jeannie.
“As soon as a robot knows it’s a robot, it is no longer a robot.”
It stands for so much in your writing of this piece.
You make the personal universal in a seemingly effortless stream of intelligence.
I like stream of intelligence! It’s not ever stream of consciousness as it’s often understood. I think of what I do as thought in action.
Thanks so much for your comment!
This is an essay about nothing. I devoured it in a rush, start to end, while already late for a PT session. Sometimes the needs of the heart supersede those of the body. Even a body in pain
Perhaps a piece not able to be summarized isn't about nothing?
such a good one, just beautiful. was the musician moondog??
Thanks! No. No one like that.
"Who'll spend the dark night with me?" Moondog. Sometime in the 60s, on the street/
Brilliant, and your very best title and subhed.
Honored you think so. xxL
Laurie, I enjoyed reading today's piece, "Ice in a Glass," very much. As a person who lived in New York for most of my life, walking on Broadway resonates with me in many deeps ways. I saw bookstores appear and disappear, porn appear and disappear, but always the great shows. I also love Hitchock movies (especially "Vertigo") but Eva Marie Saint and Cary Grant were a very interested match. It was all fun to read. Thank you.
Love the gift of the wolf tooth. My, what a big heart you have, my dear!
Thanks you! Big heart is interesting. xxL
“That combination of awakeness and not knowing is writing. “ best.
Thanks, will see you soon, xxL
I love seeing how you build on your shorter Instagram writing to weave a finished piece and the way you bring your self-awareness into your work always thrills me. "The people who keep coming back, wanting a second chance, or a third or fourth chance, imagining they can charm their way back in, that’s me." and "I was good to my dog because I loved him. He was good to me because it was his nature." Such wonderful writing, as always, Laurie.
Thanks, dear Kelly. I think I will spend some time at the next Zoom talking about how to build a collage piece such as this one that is not an essay and not strictly speaking a narrative story with an arc you can summarize. It's a piece of music that comes and goes without beginning or end. How do you know when a narrative chunk belongs in the mix? How to you decide how to order them? The next Zoom conversation is on Saturday September 14 from 3 to 4 EST. To RSVP, please email me at: lauriestone@substack.com.
I’m very interested in this discussion of non-narrative collage. I’m working on a memoir, but feel I don’t do narrative well, can’t sustain it over the length of a book. But collage is the visual art I do. Thank you, Laurie.
I'll be interested to learn more about what you mean by "I can't sustain narrative."
Yes, it's fascinating and I enjoy challenging my mind to let go of the need for there to be a buttoned up arc. I look forward to my Saturdays opening up again so I can join in the Zoom convos, I've missed them! Sadly, I won't be able on the 14th.
Please send me an email a few days after if you would like he recording. xxL
So provoking all of your entries, but this one particularly! Now I have to check out Bach ‘‘Brandenberg concerto! Learn something every time I read . You have a fascinatingmind.❤️😊🤔
Thanks very much, dear Dorothy. xxL
“That combination of not knowing and awakeness is writing.” Brilliant! Thank you for that.
Late to this one, but I love these lines: "As soon as we recognize what we are, we are no longer the thing we’ve been" (so true, I've never thought of it like this), and "The times I have woken up and asked myself where am I, that is pleasurable, even when the answer isn’t immediate. That combination of not knowing and awakeness is writing." It's genius how you capture a feeling.
Thanks! xxL
Brilliant. Great writing. I like jazz, and for some reason this reminds me of hearing Sonny Rollins live.
Thanks!
I hear music in your writing! Thank you for sharing this beautiful piece.
Lovely comment. Music is part of the aim.
Awesome. Thank you.
I find this piece fascinating. It feels like a wandering stream of consciousness, mixing memory, introspection, and a range of vivid moments that together create a patchwork of life experiences. The non-linear flow invites readers to sink into the fragmented thoughts and anecdotes—almost like snapshots—where each carries emotional weight, and the boundaries between past and present blur. There’s a strong sense of the passage of time, how it reshapes relationships, identity, and perception.