Speak, Memory: The Narrative Pull of Remembrance

One of my favorite book titles is that of Vladimir Nabokov’s autobiographical memoir Speak, Memory. As both directive and decree, memory speaks, and it’s one of the most powerful muscles for narrative pull in all of literature.

In the same way that an olfactory experience evokes recollection, memory stimulates story. A turkey basting in the oven, coffee brewing over a campfire, an evergreen bough warmed by sunlight … These olfactory recollections may evoke the holidays or hiking in the woods or family gatherings or images of good times gone bad. No matter what remembrances they call to mind, the memories that accompany the sense recollections are powerful links to the past that open doors to discovery, and the journey of discovery can generate enough wattage to propel a story, whether real or imagined and perhaps a bit of both.

For me, November is a month filled with memories, not all of them pleasant. In this month, my father died, my mother and I moved from a home we shared for over 40 years, other family passed away … It’s a tough time of year, and although autumn is my favorite season, November is a prelude to winter, and I don’t relish the cold as much as I used to.

In writing, memory, even when unpleasant, can function in a variety of ways. It can spark a scene, provide a flashback, reveal a character or personality, propel the story, reinforce conflict, force clarity, reveal pain, provide pleasure or comfort, offer a moment of rest, create context by providing history, create a link to the past and to people who aren’t around anymore. Memory, whether manufactured on behalf of a fictional character or remembered from real life experience, can do all these things and more, long as we’re paying attention.

In real life, one interesting quality of memory is that the body often realizes before the mind that something is happening under the surface. Something is up, and that something often is a memory, a thing remembered or a thing that wants to be recalled, often so that it can be explored and dealt with. In writing as an aspect of healing, one reason to write is to explore the memory for precisely these reasons, but we can’t do that if we don’t acknowledge the recollection or don’t allow our characters to do so. Once we do, we must spend time with these people, our characters, others and ourselves.

One caveat: Don’t be surprised if the deeper the memory, the more emotions arise, strong emotions that may yield other memories and other emotions, often of a painful experience. Yet, exploration yields discovery, and discovery can bring a sense of peace, closure, that aha moment that allows us to realize something we didn’t know before and enables us to move on from there.

The same is true for us as writers and for those we write about. The key is taking time to explore the memory and ask questions of it. What does it look like? Where is it happening and when? What is happening? Who is part of this memory, and why are they there? Why is it important? What might we learn from it? What does the memory want to tell us?

As a month of anniversaries, November is a difficult month. But it’s also a month of transition, of barren trees whose branches scrape the bright sky, of smoke curling from chimneys, and footprints on snow-dusted doorsteps. I may not always want to hear what my memory wants to tell me, but I generally find myself better off for having listened.

The Mystery, Magic and Suspense of October

One of the things I most enjoy about October is its air of mystery. For the rustle of fallen leaves and jack-o'-lanterns, tricks and treats, and classic tales of magic and more, October has a natural draw, with mystery and suspense in the mix.

Some years back, I attended the Wesleyan Writers Conference at Wesleyan University here in Connecticut. One workshop I took was with Madison Smartt Bell, author of All Souls' Rising: A Novel of Haiti. At one point in the workshop, Bell asked this question: Do you think that a novel, even if it’s not genre work such as mystery or horror, should include suspense?

My answer, though I hadn’t the courage to say it aloud, was no. My biased reasoning was that only a lowbrow work aiming at mass appeal would include suspense because suspense panders to the reader’s basest instinct to turn the page. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

So what changed my mind?

First, it’s certainly true that writers can use suspense to pander to readers. But that could be said of any craft element in any craft. Yet, when used with integrity as a literary tool of the trade, suspense is not only useful; it’s essential.

How can this be?

We can start by considering two basic meanings of suspense: uncertainty and anticipation. What novel of any depth can you name where each element of plot and character development is sure the whole way through? Or what short story worth reading offers no sense of anticipation?

On the contrary, one basic writing discipline is the ability to avoid spelling out every plot element and character trait in favor of leaving some things unsaid. When I explain this to writers, I often use the example of Mark Knopfler, lead singer and guitarist of Dire Straits whose playing style has described as knowing when not to play. Not only does he play well but he also knows how to speak to the listener by offering moments of silence to contemplate the eloquence of what they hear.

Another writing skill is knowing how much of a story’s plot, character development, setting or other elements to give the reader and how much to withhold throughout the story. The skill of holding back generates anticipation, and anticipation is a form of and a catalyst for suspense.

If you’re wondering how to use suspense in your work, consider the opportunities available this month to visit or revisit classic films that use suspense as their story’s narrative thread. Some of my favorites are The Innocents, based on the novella The Turn of the Screw by Henry James, Altered States, from the book of the same name by Paddy Chayefsky, and the gothic supernatural psychological horror film The Others. Each work has its eerie qualities, enhanced to a razor’s edge by the ability to withhold elements from the viewer while continuing to parcel out plot and character along the way.

For falling leaves and cool crisp nights, bright blue and yellow days, pattering rain and endless stories of mystery and suspense, autumn is my favorite season, even in such a time as this.