Lynda Barry’s craft books are a great source for writing advice and inspiration. While focused on cartooning, the advice on memory work, creativity, and freedom from imposter syndrome are important for any writer. I’m not going to book-club any of them, because they are heavy on art class exercises, but I intend to share a few quotes over the next few weeks.
As in Bird by Bird, Barry recommends memory work in her own Syllabus, a review of her instructions and experiences teaching her college-level creativity class. In Barry’s case, she’s helping her students prime the pump for ideas for short comix, either 4 panel cartoons or short 2-4 page stories, with an eventual goal of creating a longer work as their final project.
In the first class, she gives her students a noun and tells them to write down the first ten memories they associate with that word. Then, each student picks the memory that piques the most interest and expands upon it, answering specific questions: where they are, the time of day, their age, who else is there, what they notice. Finally, using those notes, students draft a short narrative describing this scene and their memories and emotions. During the class, the students follow this process on their own, using prompts they find during their coursework.
Since this occurs early in the semester, Barry starts with an easy word: Car. This is a great word for memory work, because cars are ubiquitous in the western world. Even if your family didn’t have one, you knew someone who did. Most likely, you don’t remember your first car ride, because it occurred so early in your childhood, and you couldn’t possibly count the number of times you’ve climbed in and out of one.
But individual cars…those you remember. If you want to try the exercise, make a quick list of ten items. You can write down specific cars or experiences with cars. The family car, your uncle’s clunker, the first car you bought with your own money, the car you envied, the car that struck your pet. Pick one item from the list that jogs a lot of memory, and write down everything you see in your mind’s eye. Don’t worry about narrative – start with notes and lists and get down as much as you can. When you exhaust your ideas, now turn this into a short first-person narrative. You don’t need a great opening line, nor do you need to craft a story. Put the memory on paper as it comes to you and let it be.
Here’s mine:
I’m in the back of the Chevy II Nova, not wearing a seat belt. I’m 3 or 4 years old, the car is much older, from the 1960s, bought long before I was born. I don’t remember if there even were seatbelts in the back. It will be another 20 years before society gets serious about car seats.
It is mid-morning, Spring. The sun is high and warm, but not too hot. My mom is driving. It must be Spring because she’s brought me along on errands. I’m too young to be left home alone so my siblings must be in school.
The air is clear but the car smells of oil and exhaust, coming through the rusted out hole in the floor. Through the hole, the road zooms by, grey and black mottled with streaks of color. I slip from my seat to lay face down on the floor, eye pressed to the rusted hole. I do this quietly, as it seems like something I shouldn’t do – being curious, investigating, observing, having fun. No one has said explicitly that I shouldn’t press my eye to the hole in the floor while the car is moving, but small children know. We have an instinct for what will cause trouble.
But mom doesn’t notice. She doesn’t carry conversations well, not with her children. She probably assumes I’ve laid down to sleep. I’m not missed.
So I lay on the floor of the car, nose against the threadbare carpet, eye against a jagged opening, watching the world zoom by, lucky that I won’t lose an eye to a twist of metal or sharp stone.