The Beginning

Sometimes you just gotta write. Or you gotta dance. Or you gotta sing. Or you gotta paint, sculpt, or build. Whatever it is you do, sometimes you just gotta do it.

Sometimes it feels like you go forever without having done “your thing” and you just feel a little bit more empty than you should. But then there’s that moment when you’re sitting alone in your room after watching some mildly entertaining French film starring Audrey Taotau (who you may or may not have a huge girl crush on) when you realize that something is missing. Your something is missing.

Maybe it’s Audrey Tautao sparking the romantic in you, pushing you to reach for something you thought didn’t exist anymore or maybe it’s the way the rain is tapping on your bedside window, reminding you that you’ve forgotten something, somewhere. Either way, it doesn’t matter because there you sit, alone on your bed with an unidentifiable source of inspiration that you’re not even sure how to harness.

So you write. Or you dance. Or you sing. Or you paint, sculpt, or build. Whatever it is you do, you do it. And that’s the beginning.

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memorize this

I always assumed that memories were accessible whenever you needed them most, like Apple Care representatives or Wal-Mart. I envisioned future-Morgan sitting in some hip, big-city café sipping a latte while engaging some intelligent, handsome man in a dialogue about the happenings of my youth. Memories would flow, his eyes would widen, and soon, he’d be in love with me. Mission accomplished.

I’ve waited for this scene to play out for a while. I realized recently that, while optimistic, it’s never gonna happen—not only the far-fetched narrative of the good-looking coffee shop man, but the memory part too.

For this unfortunate memory-retaining optimism, I blame authors. They write as though they remember everything—the smallest detail of that one time when they were six and accidently shoved a berry up their nose. I thought I could write like this too—and then I tried. My inability to produce a single childhood memory about a specific subject on command made me wonder whether non-fiction authors thrive off of embellishment…is it possible to remember these ultra-specific accompanying details, let alone entire memories? Whatever the case, with every memoir and autobiography that I read, I become more aware of the unrealistic expectations I’ve cultivated about the power of my memory.

To clarify, I don’t have Alzheimer’s or any other mind-altering disease. My brain is relatively normal, I think, and I can remember a wealth of information along with many experiences I’ve had. There are some subjects, though, that my mind simply refuses to relive. It’s not because they are negative memories, but because I didn’t know I needed to remind myself to remember them. And now, when I’m working hardest to experience them again, I can’t. It’s heartbreaking to think that I can’t extract the thoughts that could make me happiest.

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