One of my recent characters was the recipient of the memories of others. She had trouble distinguishing her own memories from those that weren’t her own. At times, she questioned who she was and struggled with her new identity.
So, to inform my writing, I spent some time reading and thinking about memory and the self. We rely heavily on our memories to tell us who we are, but there are some problems with that. Memories aren’t reliable and even if we think they are, they can only tell us who we were.
[Disclaimer: None of my musings consider the impact of brain injuries or disease on a person’s memory and sense of self. While both of those exist in my family, the following is based on my personal experience with my own memories and what they mean to my sense of self.]
I’ve got clear memories of events from my childhood that I just didn’t experience. What I actually have of those events are photographs and stories told over and over by my parents. So, I know that, for me, all it takes to construct a false memory is a visual cue and a good story.
At the other end of my memory spectrum, I’ve got massive gaps. I ran into a friend a while ago and they were recounting something we’d shared that had a profound impact on their life. I have zero recollection of whatever it was, even now after they reminded me…it’s a gigantic black hole. It was awful, and it hurt their feelings that I couldn’t remember.
I think because I’m a visual learner unless there’s a visual reminder, or a powerful emotional connection to the moment, event or activity, then it just doesn’t stick. So, if I’m the just sum of my memories then, at best, I’m a patchwork of half-truths and gaping holes. Surely, I’m more than that?
One thing I’m certain of is that I’ve occupied this body through everything. I know it well and can point to every scar and tell you where I was and what happened. This body hasn’t always served me well—my periods were debilitating, and the night-sweats of perimenopause made me question my will to live—but it’s mine. Isn’t it?
It turns out it’s not. By this point in my life, every cell I was born with has been replaced around eight times. This is not the same body that learned to swim in a tidal channel on the mudflats. It’s not the same body that lost its virginity on a picnic blanket under a grapefruit tree. It’s not even the same body that danced under a glacier in Antarctica. I don’t possess the same body I was born into, but the elements remain.
So, am I just a bunch of memories that can’t be trusted and a body that’s changed beyond recognition? Of course not. I’m so much more.
I’m also the product of an accident of birth. Born into a skin, culture, country and time that affords me advantages so many others don’t have. But I’m of a sex that came with hidden challenges. I’m driven by ever-changing goals, fuelled by unstable emotions, and a dynamic set of beliefs and values. I’m the forever-fluid shape of all of those things and more—a package consisting of constant change and potential.
Human beings, along with all living beings, are not static. Even rocks change over time!
How does this apply to writing?
The characters we write should change across the trajectory of even the shortest story. Their memories should be questionable and their bodies and minds messy with scars both literal and metaphorical.
Newton’s Third Law of Motion states that for every action, there must be an equal and opposite reaction. This principle is useful in developing characters. If a character experiences great pain, then they should become averse to painful situations. If a character finds unbridled joy, then they must also suffer the depths of despair. We need to write these reactions into the character to show how they evolve.
We must allow our characters to grow, or even diminish. Not everyone becomes a better person. Some people thrive in adversity, while others collapse. Our characters should question themselves. What they need from the world should change as the story progresses. The character in the first sentence, should not be the same as the character in the last sentence and we should understand why.
My character, the one who spawned this existential exploration of self, changed enormously over the arc of the story. She had to. Even though she struggles to manage the multitude of ‘other’ memories, she’s retained her sense of self. At the end of the story, she’s both physically and mentally altered and is still grappling with those changes. She's not a better person, nor is she worse but she's different. Despite the changes, she remains unique and distinct from the other characters, and most important, we still recognise her.
So, to inform my writing, I spent some time reading and thinking about memory and the self. We rely heavily on our memories to tell us who we are, but there are some problems with that. Memories aren’t reliable and even if we think they are, they can only tell us who we were.
[Disclaimer: None of my musings consider the impact of brain injuries or disease on a person’s memory and sense of self. While both of those exist in my family, the following is based on my personal experience with my own memories and what they mean to my sense of self.]
I’ve got clear memories of events from my childhood that I just didn’t experience. What I actually have of those events are photographs and stories told over and over by my parents. So, I know that, for me, all it takes to construct a false memory is a visual cue and a good story.
At the other end of my memory spectrum, I’ve got massive gaps. I ran into a friend a while ago and they were recounting something we’d shared that had a profound impact on their life. I have zero recollection of whatever it was, even now after they reminded me…it’s a gigantic black hole. It was awful, and it hurt their feelings that I couldn’t remember.
I think because I’m a visual learner unless there’s a visual reminder, or a powerful emotional connection to the moment, event or activity, then it just doesn’t stick. So, if I’m the just sum of my memories then, at best, I’m a patchwork of half-truths and gaping holes. Surely, I’m more than that?
One thing I’m certain of is that I’ve occupied this body through everything. I know it well and can point to every scar and tell you where I was and what happened. This body hasn’t always served me well—my periods were debilitating, and the night-sweats of perimenopause made me question my will to live—but it’s mine. Isn’t it?
It turns out it’s not. By this point in my life, every cell I was born with has been replaced around eight times. This is not the same body that learned to swim in a tidal channel on the mudflats. It’s not the same body that lost its virginity on a picnic blanket under a grapefruit tree. It’s not even the same body that danced under a glacier in Antarctica. I don’t possess the same body I was born into, but the elements remain.
So, am I just a bunch of memories that can’t be trusted and a body that’s changed beyond recognition? Of course not. I’m so much more.
I’m also the product of an accident of birth. Born into a skin, culture, country and time that affords me advantages so many others don’t have. But I’m of a sex that came with hidden challenges. I’m driven by ever-changing goals, fuelled by unstable emotions, and a dynamic set of beliefs and values. I’m the forever-fluid shape of all of those things and more—a package consisting of constant change and potential.
Human beings, along with all living beings, are not static. Even rocks change over time!
How does this apply to writing?
The characters we write should change across the trajectory of even the shortest story. Their memories should be questionable and their bodies and minds messy with scars both literal and metaphorical.
Newton’s Third Law of Motion states that for every action, there must be an equal and opposite reaction. This principle is useful in developing characters. If a character experiences great pain, then they should become averse to painful situations. If a character finds unbridled joy, then they must also suffer the depths of despair. We need to write these reactions into the character to show how they evolve.
We must allow our characters to grow, or even diminish. Not everyone becomes a better person. Some people thrive in adversity, while others collapse. Our characters should question themselves. What they need from the world should change as the story progresses. The character in the first sentence, should not be the same as the character in the last sentence and we should understand why.
My character, the one who spawned this existential exploration of self, changed enormously over the arc of the story. She had to. Even though she struggles to manage the multitude of ‘other’ memories, she’s retained her sense of self. At the end of the story, she’s both physically and mentally altered and is still grappling with those changes. She's not a better person, nor is she worse but she's different. Despite the changes, she remains unique and distinct from the other characters, and most important, we still recognise her.
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