Being a Memory Tourist
I’ve never been one of those people who says, “I wish I could be in high school again” or “I wish I could be this age again.” But what I do wish is I could be a Memory Tourist. That I could choose a memory, go back and be there when that memory happened. Because wouldn’t it be nice to experience it, not only as you did the first time, but also through the lens of new experiences and understandings?
For instance, Super Bowl Sunday. My mom was not a sports person, but my dad always hosted a Super Bowl party with his friends. So she’d make sure he was set up with all the good snacks – meatballs, chicken nuggets, chips, dips, beer, etc. Then she and I would take off to see a movie double feature on that day. Back then, when you went to the movies, you had a pretty good chance of seeing something worth seeing. She and I saw a lot of movies year-round, but I wish I could remember the specific ones we saw on those annual Sunday double feature outings. I always think of her on Super Bowl Sunday. If I could, I’d jump back in time and “tour” one of those days we had together.
I also wish I could “tour” memories that aren’t as clear to me now as I’d like them to be. Figure out what I was feeling and thinking, or see the emotions and body language of the person I was with more clearly, to interpret through the window of experience things that were beyond my grasp at the time they happened. It would certainly shed light on many of the horrors of my teenage dating life, that’s for sure, lol. Of course, I’d have a hard time being only a tourist in those memories. I might want to give the idiot that was me, and the double-idiot that was him, a piece of my mind! Or maybe I’d just want to give a motherly hug to the two confused hormone-driven messes we both were. Hard to say.
The two books I’m writing now, In Her Arms and At Her Command, both rest on the foundation of a lot of important memories built “off camera” between the main characters, forming their own culture of friendship or family. For instance, in At Her Command (coming Summer 2020), Rosalinda is part of a close-knit group of women, the executive circle at Thomas Rose Associates. As the story unfolds, we witness snippets of those shared memories in dialogue, action or internal narrative, all of which underscore the strength of their relationship bonds and draw us into their story. Like this internal narrative recollection Rosalinda has when she wakes up at Lawrence’s place:
Unlike Lawrence, she wasn’t a light sleeper. Not at all. Her best friend Abigail claimed Ros slept like a person capable of a self-induced coma.“Sleeplessness is a sign of a guilty conscience,” Ros had informed her.
“If that’s true, then your sleep is the opposite end of the spectrum,” Abigail had retorted. “Conscienceless sociopath.”
In my books, particularly my Board Room series, where so many erotic experiences are shared, those memories can be a little on the racy side. Another member of Rosalinda’s inner circle is Cyn Marigold. The first time Ros gets a look at Lawrence’s bare backside, here’s what runs through her mind:
His seriously superior ass was all flexing, taut muscle, begging for teeth marks. Cyn was a biter. Ros could see her going after that perfection like an erotically starved piranha.
Some of my delightful readers were recently talking about how they enjoy the bonds between my characters, the way they build, book to book. They mentioned they like going back to the beginning to spend time with them, as those early memories were created. Which makes me realize that writing a series gives an author the ability to let her readers become memory tourists.
I’m the same way. In the Outlander series, I love to go back to the first books and read Jamie and Claire’s unorthodox wedding. Or cry over how they reconciled after losing their first child. I especially love the scene where Claire fought the wolf outside Wentworth prison. I still can’t believe they didn’t include that in the TV series, though in all fairness, I’m not really sure how they could have done it on screen well with CGI, and yuck on using exotic animals for entertainment).
When I’m writing a book that includes beloved characters from earlier books, I also often give into the urge to revisit favorite scenes between those characters. Rory and Daralyn’s story, In His Arms (also releasing Summer 2020) includes key appearances by Marcus and Thomas. Which is only to be expected, since Thomas is Rory’s brother, and Rory played an important part in Thomas’s own love story with Marcus. With every book in a series, we’re building a family history, a friend history, that becomes a scrapbook of memories to revisit.
One of my favorite scenes from Rough Canvas was when Thomas and Marcus made love in a field. Here’s a snippet:
They put the top down on the Maserati. It handled well on the small winding roads that took them deeper into the Berkshires, where leaves danced as they passed and wildflowers on the road side nodded. Marcus found there was a soothing greenness to it all, like the clasp of something familiar, important in its vitality in a way that couldn’t be described, that he found vaguely disturbing.
Thomas finally had him stop on a rise, where a flat, slightly sloped expanse of field provided a rolling panoramic glimpse of the forest backdrop, followed by a layering of blue green hills. Marcus followed him over a fence with the basket, blanket and book. In short order he had the blanket spread out, the basket serving as a side table for his glass of wine. Putting a book in his lap and tree at his back, Marcus set his music player at his side to softly play the programmed selections he’d downloaded for this trip.
While Thomas had packed all those things for his comfort, he paid little attention to Marcus’s use of them now, moving about fifty feet away into the field, dropping several sketch pads around him. There he stood now. Staring into space. Shifting.
It was like watching a bloodhound, Marcus reflected. Thomas turning, making slight, erratic shifts that couldn’t necessarily be predicted, seeking something no one else could detect. Abruptly he settled, dropping to a cross-legged position in the long grass, opening the sketch pad and letting his pencil take him to whatever place he tangled with his muse.
Marcus had heard of family members of artists who felt excluded, isolated during these times. Maybe he felt differently because of his reverence for what happened in these moments. When the end result captivated someone on a gallery wall, he knew he’d been present for creation, a fly on the wall.
But with Thomas, it was as if his lover’s creative awareness expanded and cloaked Marcus the same way the greenness of the trees did. The cool comfort of it was a buffer against the world, as if it guarded something sacred, untouchable in this field. He was a part of this, not just an observer.
Pushing away that thought and the other unsettling thoughts it raised, Marcus focused on his book and wine, letting the breeze and the quiet of the place close in on his mind, fill the troubled spots for awhile. It was as if that quietness had substance, for while it was present it seemed to have no room for uneasy ruminations.
Three glasses of wine later, he stretched out on his back, ankles crossed, one arm behind his head as a pillow, holding the paperback up to read. Until it slowly descended and he dozed.
Wheat-colored grass, flowing, rippling like a lover’s muscles. Green flowing into the gold like interlocking fingers. Every part different, but all part of the whole. Birds spiraling and speaking in musical tongues, warbling, chirping, trebling, the piercing shriek of a hawk. The occasional rasping calls of the crows, or the surprise of an owl’s hoot as the sun rose, giving warmth, a dying god’s gift, the promise of renewal as it moved inexorably toward the autumn cycle.
Marcus opened sleepy eyes to find his lover’s face very, very close. Thomas was leaning over him, one hand braced on the other side of Marcus’s hip, his dark chocolate brown eyes studying Marcus’s face intently. Leaning in further, he kissed him.
Marcus raised his hand, intending to cup his head, feel the short hair layered over his knuckles, but Thomas’s hand closed over his wrist, held it in the air, his fingers straightening to meet him palm to palm. Then, slowly, Thomas eased both their hands back to the blanket as he shifted and laid his body fully on Marcus’s.
“Let me,” Thomas murmured. “Just let me.”
Marcus wondered if it was only incidental that John Mayer’s languorous "Gravity" was playing, the words and tone so appropriate.
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Everything about this scene paints it into a memory, surely as Thomas’s brush. I think that’s why it’s one of my favorites in the book to revisit.
Interesting note: The above was a live scene in Rough Canvas. However, since the story is a reunited lovers story trope, Thomas and Marcus’s memories of their relationship before it crashed and burned also play a pivotal role in drawing the readers into the story, as well as building their hope for the two to resolve their obstacles and get back together again. In a book, memories and remembrances can create a powerful magic that way.
What memories do you wish you could “tour,” in your mind? In books, or reality? Or both?
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Want to read the first chapter of In His Arms or At Her Command? Here are the BookFunnel links to do just that:
You can read the first chapter of Rough Canvas here on my website, or through the preview feature at your favorite book vendor, if applicable.
