The other day a memory came back to me of a serious incident in my twenties involving a dog attack on a neighbor's toddler. No one witnessed the attack, only the aftermath. I treated the victim, who was permanently scarred on the face because of the attack, but I also happened to know the dog's owner. The mother of the child was horrified but did not blame the dog, which I thought was extremely decent of her. The dog's owner blamed the child, which may have been justified but did not help the situation.
No one knew what really happened, as the dog couldn't defend itself, and the toddler was too young to describe it. Ultimately the owner put down the dog because her spouse was afraid it would attack their young child. No one got out of that incident without serious damage.
I remembered all of this while reading an article about a similar situation. What surprised me was that I had not thought about the incident in at least forty years. It really upset me. It also made me become very careful not to let strangers interact with any of the dogs I've owned without a leash and supervision. I never allow very young children near my dogs under any circumstances, either. Yet I hadn't thought of why until I read the article.
I think this is because generally speaking I don't dwell on negative things. I try to learn from them and apply that to my own life.
Memories of my writing is different, and always has been. I can remember -- and often do -- every single story I've written. Some are so distant as to be fuzzy, like the very first story I wrote when I was eight years old. It was a spin on Dick and Jane, featuring Jane rather than Dick. Jane got to play with all the cool toys: Hot Wheels, G.I. Joes, and Legos. In my story, Jane did not have to play with dolls because her mother didn't care, and she had a brother who shared his cool toys. Jane was a better me in a very different universe.
I remember the apocalyptic story I wrote about the end of the world when I was twelve. I illustrated it, too, by tracing faces out of comic books and coloring them. I gave to my English teacher, hoping for some feedback, and when I asked him for it he told me he threw it away. That hurt me so much I never again trusted a teacher. It also taught me never to give my writing to anyone randomly, and almost kept me from becoming a professional writer. Maybe it should have.
Every story I've written has deep, personal meaning on many levels for me. There are markers and Easter eggs and even some coded secrets in them (I regularly employ cryptograpy for copyright reasons, too.) Even the stories I wrote to work through some of the worst times in my real life remain vivid and very special in my memory -- maybe more so because they allowed me to escape physical pain, unbearable tragedies, and a too often miserable life.
Writing has always been my partner, my best friend, and my guardian. It's the astral library of my soul. I can always lose myself in writing and come back to my real life as a calmer, more peaceful person. Maybe that's why I never forget what I write. :)
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