Memory is a selective thing. Mine is not what it once was. I do okay with the kids’ names at my high school library, because I have to look at them, hear them say their name, then type it in to the circulation desk computer. It seems it takes three senses for everything to be branded in my brain. It’s not because I’m a complete fluff-head; I used to be pretty smart. I started college when I was fifteen, the same age as quite a few high school freshmen. But now everything needs to be written down if there’s any hope of me remembering to do it.
But memory is a selective thing. See above. If you repeat things, they stick with you. And it’s weird what sticks with you. When I was a senior in high school, there was this guy who sat in front of me, Paul Korn. Everything was alphabetical then, and my maiden name was Lanman. He did this nifty thing when he signed yearbooks. He took names and then started a word with each letter to make a silly sentence. Mine was
True? I guess it was. I’m not sure it’s true now. I read an article somewhere about a minister who encouraged his congregation to stop complaining for a stretch of time. They had purple rubber band bracelets to remind them to switch wrists when they did complain, and then they had to start the count all over. I’d probably be getting whiplash changing sides. Not only do I complain, but I’m not always going giggling into everything either.
So this post is turning into a complaint session about writing, circuitously but surely. Right now, I’ve had a requested full manuscript on an editor’s desk for over five months. Playing the waiting game. Wondering if I should send a gentle reminder. Thinking my SASE went into the shredder with the rest of the paper. Just worrying out loud. What’s your frustration? Let’s snap those virtual purple rubber bands. What’s your silly sentence?
The man with a clear conscience probably has a poor memory. ~Author Unknown