Art that Spans Generations

For the 4th of July, my family attended a local fireworks show / concert. This year’s headliners: The Beach Boys. (And seriously, who doesn’t love the Beach Boys? What’s more American than that?)

I’ve seen the Beach Boys before. In fact, I saw them at this same exact show a number of years ago. They have the kind of sound that makes people stand up and dance and sing at the top of their lungs, even if they don’t know all the words.

There was this guy a couple rows down. He had to be forty-five-ish, at least. But as soon as the band started to play, he whooped, and hollered, and jumped out of his seat to belt out the songs. And yes, he definitely danced, even when his kids got in the way.

Between songs, my teenage son turned to me and said, “This is the kind of music that will never go out of style. It’s classic. Why don’t they make music like this anymore?”

My first response was to point out that we were at a concert, so obviously someone still did make this exact music (notwithstanding the fact that the band members are in their 70’s ish). But then I thought about popular radio play these days, and wondered what songs and which groups will be considered classics when my grandchildren are teenagers.

I often have similar wonders about books and other literature.

I have fond memories of stories by Judy Blume, Beverly Cleary’s Ramona series, and Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. Those are the classics I grew up with. The stories that stuck with me. The art that carved out a piece of my soul and reshaped it. There were others, of course. I loved to read as a kid. But when I think of personal childhood classics, those are the first to pop into my brain.

In the age of technology, when there are thousands of books to choose from, and kids can buy them with the click of a button, I’m wondering which ones they will remember most when they’re grown.

And I have to admit, I kind of hope that someday, one of them will be mine.

For your enjoyment, this is the 1963 version.

The First Time I Saw...

Okay, I mentioned songs already. Still feeling a bit nostalgic, apparently, because now I’ve moved on to movies.

Picture this: I’m flipping through the TV channels on a Sunday afternoon, and come across a movie I haven’t seen for a long time. A movie that brings back all kinds of memories of friends and boys, old schools and other places, and feelings, lots and lots of feelings. The past. The present. The future.

Happens almost every weekend. Most often, lately, I find either The Notebook, or Titanic. But sometimes I’m lucky enough to find an older one like, Pretty in Pink or…Pretty Woman.

*eyes glaze over*

The first time I saw Pretty Woman, I was fifteen, and had met a boy at the show house one afternoon. Since we had the entire theater to ourselves, we were adventurous and sat in the aisle. The whole place smelled like spilled pop and that fake butter stuff they put on popcorn, and the air conditioner was cranked—raised goose bumps on my arms. Outside, it was like a hundred degrees (Phoenix weather), so I’m thinking it must have been either late spring or early summer.

And I remember that I really, really liked the boy. And yes, we went out again. Several times.

Ahh, memories. What movies take you back? To where? And with whom?

Memorable People

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” ~ Maya Angelou


I have a theory. Probably not an original one, actually. In fact, someone somewhere has most likely done a study on it at some point. But I believe that our memories are based not on sights or tastes or sounds or smells, but on feelings first. Everything else is secondary.

For instance, we might remember our first vacation because of the excitement and happiness we experienced during that trip. And then we associate smells and sights and sounds with that incident, and voila, we have a memory.

On the other spectrum, we might remember a broken heart because of the hollow ache, the physical pain. And again, all the other sensations we remember are linked to that original gut-wrenching feeling.

I don’t remember a lot of books I read as a child. But there are a handful that I do, and they affected me enough to help shape what I became as an adult. Thinking back, I’ve always been a fan of romance in plots. Even in Nancy Drew, I couldn’t get enough of the almost-kisses between Nancy and Ned. That’s the feeling I latched onto, and the only part about those mysteries I really remember. Well, that, and the fact that Nancy always conveniently carried a change of clothes in the trunk of her car. But ya know. I think that had more to do with believability.

Another example: People.

I’m terrible with names. It takes me at least three times of meeting you before I remember yours (unless you’ve done something to make a huge impression, then it might only take two). But if you made me smile, I’ll remember that feeling and associate it with your face. If you made me angry, I remember that too. And if you said or did something outlandish or incredible or absolutely impressionable, if you made my cheeks hurt from laughing, or my heart flutter with happiness, or my gut clench with pain or anxiety, I will definitely remember your name. The first time.

How do the people you meet remember you?

My Roots Are Showing

Every once in a while I’ll be editing a scene and discover that my characters are experiencing things from my childhood. When I realize this, I generally end up rereading the scene numerous times, wondering if that’s really how it happened.

Of course, I’m writing fiction, so the scene can go however I want, but still. It makes me wonder. Ya know?

At that point, I have a few choices. I could ignore my curiosity and just write the scene the way I see it in my head, or I could dig into my memory and rewrite it fifteen or a hundred times trying to figure out which way it really happened, or…

I could call my mom and ask her how it happened. If she was there. And if she remembers. Which she probably doesn’t.

Why do I do this to myself? Honestly, I think all writers inadvertently use certain scenes from our lives—be it childhood or adulthood—in our writing. If we didn’t, we’d probably have nothing whatsoever to write about. Granted, we do hope to come up with original stories and characters, but on some level even those things come from a box of storage buried deep inside our brains. And I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m not the most organized person. All my boxes are mixed up and muddled together.

Real life and fiction sometimes share the same box. And even though I know the difference, my characters don’t always get it. I guess I’m trying to say that the best way to be a good writer is to live life and experience lots of stuff. Let your characters borrow some of your roots and branches.

You can be sure that at some point, that helicopter ride over Lake Mead you took on a whim will come in handy for more than just the ability to say you did it. You’ll use it. I know I will.