I struggle with this one. The word ‘memory’ implies a long history of something. An experience long ago.
I don’t feel qualified as a writer to have a ‘favourite memory’ yet. With my third novel due out on August 1, I’m still a baby writer.
Of course, I’ve always loved to read and loved to write.
At the tender age of eleven I became the youngest staff writer on the local paper. I earned 11p per line of copy. I remember my shoes rubbing my heels when I met the editor for an interview.
In my teens, I bound a set of my poems into a rough, handmade booklet. I found that collection a few years ago when I was clearing the attic. The poems were self-indulgent and pretty depressing. But they brought back memories of baggy jeans and sweatshirts.
Apart from keeping a diary of sorts, I didn’t write much through university: my confidence knocked sideways by studying literary giants. How could I even dare to pick up a pen when there were already so many beautifully-constructed sentences out in the world?
I was fortunate to graduate and find a job that satisfied my curiosity for storytelling, albeit with more facts than fiction.
So, it took until my forties to begin that first novel. And when it first came it was a jumbled plot, messy characters, and ignorant of genre or craft. With a red pen and an open mind, willing to learn, I worked at it.
My memories of writing don’t really stick. Writing happens. Occasionally I will zone out. And before I know it, I’ve got a few hundred words of varying quality down on the page.
There are highs and lows, no doubt. Bouncing ideas around over a pint. Sharing a laugh-out-loud moment. The first great review where my words have really connected with a reader.
I’m grateful that I can lose myself in a story – either my own or someone else’s. I’m grateful that wherever I go in the world, I can open a notebook and write a few lines. I can rely on my muscle memory to kick in: for words to appear on the page. Sometimes incoherent, often illegible.
As for my favourite memory as a writer: maybe it’s the first time I held 80,000 words in my hand. That’s a lot of pages. Maybe the first time I saw my book in a shop. Or my first reading to an audience.
Maybe I haven’t made my favourite memory yet. Maybe it’s all to come.
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