Reader,

Here's a thought for you: memories are the building blocks of all writing.

It doesn't matter if you're writing fiction or nonfiction, poetry or prose. Your ability to write hinges upon your ability to remember.

Writing a prescriptive handbook for entrepreneurs who want to make sales calls that don't feel salesy? You've got to pull from your own experience — both as a seller and as a mark — if you want your readers to connect with and understand the lessons you have to offer.

Or maybe you're writing a YA fantasy novel that reimagines the world of Beowulf. Even then, your memories are vital to the writing process. You obviously can't "remember" what it was like to live in 5th century Scandinavia, but you're still relying on your memories to capture sensory details and poignant emotions. What's more, you've got remember what it was like to be a teenage reader, lest you write a novel that only grownups can relate to.

But memory is a tricky thing, something my memoir-writing readers can immediately attest to. You sit down to write about the summers of your childhood, only to discover that the colors and faces are blurrier than you expected. Every now and then, a memory is crystal clear and vibrant. But more often than not, you feel like you're staring at a blurry Polaroid. You desperately flap the memory in your mind, trying to recover the details you need to bring the scene to life on the page.

I've recently been reading one of Frederick Buechner's memoirs, The Sacred Journey. It's a marvelous book, both for the stories that Buechner shares and the little asides he can't help but write as he describes his life. Take this striking comment about memory:

This sentence underscores the importance and power of connecting with our memory. To remember is not merely to recollect a set of facts about what happened. Rather, the act of remembering is an act of exploration — especially if we can access our nonjudgmental curiosity as we do so. As we look into our memory, we are inviting what has happened to speak into our lives now.

More shockingly, Buechner suggests that to remember is to invite the present to leave a mark on the past. We cannot change what has happened, but the meaning of our life's events is anything but fixed. Remember when Sadness touches Riley's memories in Inside Out? That's not just a fun plot device. (And as an aside, sadness is not the only feeling that can change the color and tone of our memories.)

We're often unaware of how and when these changes happen. However, when we write, we have a golden opportunity to be a witness, especially if we can retain our curiosity. Because writing is not something we do once we've figured everything out: at its best, it's a way of learning. A way of exploring. A way of entering the glorious realm of possibility where, to repeat Buechner's words, "everything that ever was continues not just to be, but to grow and change with the life that is in it still."

Keep your stick on the ice.

Frank.