History, in the retelling, tends to lose important details and context, substituting a few dramatic embellishments along the way. Take the first Thanksgiving story, for instance. Enshrined in school texts, the tale has been idealised to the point of disbelief. Even as an adolescent, I recall thinking, ‘This just doesn’t stack’. (Don’t get me started on the Bible). But no one wanted to hear my cynical take on the holidays, let alone on life. That’s what writing’s for 😉
Writing means so many things to me, things that are hard to express because the mere act of language infers distance. (And lately, there’s much more space than I’d like between my mind and my laptop screen.) Although writers often wax lyrical about connecting with readers, and I do value that immensely, I suspect that I write mainly for myself. Writing helps me to process issues, experiences and conversations that sometimes need a lifetime to break down. Writing encourages me to clutch memories before they slip away with time and distance – like here, where putting these words to the page catapulted me to a time, place and event that changed me forever … in ways that I am still uncovering.