“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.”
― Anaïs Nin
Here’s what a lot of people don’t understand when it comes to being a writer.
The cadence of words, they way they are communicated from keyboard to screen–to us, it’s lovely. It’s a kind of delicate dance with many missteps.
Many people write for fame and glory. Many people fail.
But those of us who write to remember will always have a reason to rejoice.
The recording of life’s seemingly insignificant moments takes them from ordinary to extraordinary. We are the historians.
If I take a moment to write about the surprise snow day when my son was ten, it ties this moment to both our hearts. If I describe his joy as he ran around in the front yard before 7:30 in the morning, glorying in the ease of the wet snow’s ability to form dozens of snow balls, it won’t be forever forgotten. If I mention how I put a coat on over my scrubs and followed him into the yard for a snowball fight under the treehouse, it matters. And, years later, when my boy is no longer small (he’s 6’5″ now) and the treehouse has been long gone, it won’t seem sad, but precious.
If I don’t note the exact day my baby girl lost her first tooth, who will? Who will give this moment the importance it deserves? And, years from now, when my daughter has gone gray and visits me at the nursing home, how else will I be able to remember? How else might I carve these memories in my heart, press them to my soul?
Memories fail, but the pen does not.
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