Randomness

When you are a writer, you notice the oddest things, and think about them for far too long. When your mind is at rest, if it ever is, you're constantly ruminating on ideas that aren't fully formed, wondering what might become the germ of a story or the quintessential detail at the core of a character. My neighborhood provides a lot of opportunities to notice the little things in life. The small blue flowers that grow under the fence of one house; toys in someone's front yard; the stack of mattresses just inside a curtainless window across the street; the dog that looks like Spuds Mackenzie; the deflated balloon on a cactus (I can't believe that actually happened, but my roommate from Phoenix says it happens all the time); the ridiculous number of doors on the big house on the hill.

In thinking about descriptions of places and things, I realize that I've been collecting little details for years. I don't have the best visual memory for layouts and big picture-type stuff, but I remember the little things well. I remember the mounted butterflies in A's bedroom. I remember the clean smell of laundry that always, always came from H's basement. I remember eating margarine on saltines at S's house. I remember boxes of envelopes (home business? I don't know) at E's house. I remember the toys strewn about the lawn of the house with the red door. I remember the taste of Fun Dip on a summer's day as Michelle and I walked home from the candy store. 

There's so much that I remember. Sometimes, in quiet moments, I challenge myself to think of something I haven't thought of in a while. Can I really remember where they kept the mats at my dancing school? Where was the piano in the very first classroom at my first middle school teaching job? How many times did I run the projector at that film series at the seminary? Pictures help jar these memories, as do reminiscences with parties who were there (many thanks to my sister who drew me the layout of the roller rink we frequented as kids), but it's possible to explore these places in your mind, just turning over details until suddenly there's some new tidbit you haven't thought of in years.

I suppose that I've already used a lot of these little bits and pieces in my writing. The protagonist's home in my first novel is based on the house of one of my childhood friends. The characters in that book go to a party at a house where I once went to a party. I remember these details and I change them to fit the needs of my stories, but I still remember them. Lu's locker combination (in my second book) is the locker combination I had in high school. Yes, I still remember it, but then again, I used that lock every day for four years.

I suppose the best physical descriptions I can come up with as a writer are not the ones that come fully formed out of my head. They are the ones that grow out of the things I've already seen, the blocks I've already walked, and the sounds and smells in my memory. Perhaps as I write more, I'll become more inventive with my descriptions of settings and of concrete things. Until I can invent entire worlds in my head (thanks for the high bar, J.K. Rowling), I'll rely on a growing collection of small details. Maybe, just maybe, the little yellow rubber fish I got for a dime at the arcade when I was a wee lass will become an important element in a story someday. Hell, maybe an entire series of novels will turn on this completely random object. I don't have a lot of things from my childhood, but I saved the fish for some reason. But even if I hadn't, I probably would've remembered it. I do that with random things, you see.