Memory feeds imagination.
US novelist (1952 - )
1977. Or so the picture says. I remember the garden and how it went forever. When I wanted to run away, I packed a bag with the essentials (doll, bear), and I ran off to the end of the hedge. Not on the driveway side: the other side, just so I could stay inside the garden but look back at the house. Too far away. I think that's far enough: I'll go back now.
I'm the one on the left, at about that age. Lovely sardonic sister on the right. (Big sis, how did you know everything?)
This week after the last class of my editing course, a bunch of us were splitting a bottle of red wine down at the bar around a chunky dark wood table. One of the classmates said; "Tell us about something you saw on your travels. Something that really stays with you. That was unexpected and surprising".
The result was an amazing storytelling session, with wonderful flights of description and fascination. Memories shared. All the senses. The silly things we do. Moments of mistaken irony, surprising gorgeousness, startling and unexplained. Painted word pictures. Such imagination, memory.
Aren't you glad we've got it?