Of moths and memories

I’ve had this post in the pipeline for over a week, but wanted to wait until I hit a milestone to publish it. I now have twenty thousand words of my memoir draft. I’m a third of the way towards my goal of sixty thousand words.
I’ve stuck to my weekday routine of a thousand words each morning with my first cuppa, and it’s serving me well.
I’ve also had a bit of a moth-themed fortnight. As well as my main memoir-writing project, I’ve found time to submit a short memoir piece to Mslexia magazine.
I've submitted it to the ‘Mslexia Moths’ slot – named after the famous memoir performance events in the US. The slot is for a prose text of around eight hundred words, suitable for both page and performance, about a true event that has happened to the writer.
​My piece centred on a specific memory from 2014, triggered by my main memoir project. I’ve had a short piece published in Mslexia before, but haven’t submitted for a while, so I’ve got my fingers crossed.

A moth-eaten cloth

I’m going to explore some more helpful resources over the next few weeks, but just now I’d like to reflect on the nature of memory. I don’t know what it’s like for other people, but I’ve noticed that I tend to view my past as a series of major events. It’s like a big patchwork quilt, and when I look at it I tend to focus on the larger, more colourful patches. Some are ones I like, and some I’m less keen on, but it’s these bigger ones that get noticed.
I tend not to focus on the smaller, less obvious patches or the stitches that hold them all together. And there are moth-eaten holes and threadbare gaps; I’ve been surprised that while my memoir covers only the last thirteen years (the period after making a big life-changing decision), I have trouble remembering the order of many events. Luckily I’ve kept a record of all the (many) addresses I’ve had in that time and the corresponding dates, so this gives me a factual anchor, but it’s surprising how often I’ve had to consult it and to figure out what happened when.
Another aspect of the nature of memory that has become very apparent is how linked everything is, past and present, and how even though I’m covering a period of thirteen years, inevitably I am finding that events from further back in time have a bearing on what happened during that period, and I am feeling compelled to write about them – something I’m happy to do at this stage, even if they don’t make it into the final draft.
In light of the patchwork nature of my memory, it turns out that my initial instinct to have computer folders covering main periods/themes and then lots of separate text files within each folder was a good one.
I’ve started putting a number and the year as well as a descriptive name at the start of each filename (so ‘1 2017 Lakes’ for example). The number means that they stay in the right order in the folder, and the rest means I can easily see what belongs where, and can dip into and add to files whenever a relevant thought occurs to me.
This means that when I come to edit it into something readable, I’m not faced with sixty thousand words of straight text that jumps around over several decades. This will make the task less daunting.

Letting the light in

Anyone who knows me well will know how much the two Spell Songs albums mean to me, along with the two books that inspired them: The Lost Words and The Lost Spells.  
Not only are the albums a profound and beautiful celebration of the living world and a lament about all we are losing from it, but they were created right here in the heart of the Lake District.
I've been listening to the second album, Let the Light In, a lot recently. The exquisitely beautiful song Moth speaks of how, as moth-eaten cloth gets thinner and thinner, it starts to let the light in.
I have been surprised to find that where the parts of my patchwork quilt of memory are thin – the moth-eaten parts and loose stitching between the big events – the act of deliberately delving into my memory, of examining the gaps, has resulted in remembering some unexpectedly beautiful things.
I’d forgotten about some of the times when I have been quietly content, going about my daily business, satisfied with my routine and with life’s small pleasures. I would not have remembered these times if I had not been writing this memoir.

 It’s easy to think life is just a solid patchwork of dramas, both good and bad, and not to examine the loose stitching that holds it together and all the little uneventful gaps through which a great deal of light shows, if only we take the time to look.

Join me

I plan to post from time to time about my progress and about the books and other resources I’ve found helpful. Sign up for updates or comment and let me know your method for getting started with your memoir and your process for keeping going and organising your work. I’d love to hear from you.